A Bit Not Good
by 55tbird
Summary: Something happens that is really a lot not good. Something else is going to happen, too; but he's biding his time. Warning- a doctor who's injured and a detective who's at a loss. In need of some much-wanted criticism, too, please! (I do not own Sherlock)
1. The Color Blue

"JOHN!"

He couldn't move. Couldn't breathe, couldn't move, could barely see. He only saw colors. He could feel, though. Oh, and he could hear. He could hear his ragged gasps as nothing entered his lungs, he could hear his shattered yell of- of what? Pain? Grief? He couldn't tell. The agony was _astounding_.

"_JOHN!_"

Oh, and he could hear that. Who was that?

_Thump. Thump. Thump. "JOHN?!_"

The beating, he could hear the beating, what was beating?

_**"JOHN!"**_

The voice. And the _thump. Thump. Thump._ And the ragged gasps, and the roaring in his ears, the rushing, screaming, echoing in his ears. He brought his hand up from where it lay on the ground- sticky, his hand felt sticky, and it was shaking, why was it shaking?

_"JOHN! JOHN, ANSWER ME!"_

Shaking… trembling, his hand, his whole arm was trembling, he couldn't hold it still, it was sticky, his wrist was sticky and it was wet, why? He could taste the sharp salt in his mouth, his mouth was dry and he couldn't breathe, why? He brought his hand, his shaking hand, up to his chest, it was sticky, too, it was sticky and wet and he could hear the roaring in his ears and the _thump_ing that was slowing down but it hadn't stopped yet and he couldn't really feel anything, his whole body was separate, numb, and he could only see colors-

_"JOHN WATSON! JOHN!"_

The voice, there was the voice again, who was it? Why was it echoing, it was faint, so faint, and he couldn't… he couldn't hear it very well, there was something in his ear, rushing, pounding in his head, and even though he couldn't breathe he let out a yell, a scream, a _shriek_ and it just rang in his ears, the ringing, the _agony_, the roaring, there were too many noises and his head was spinning.

_"JOHN?! JOHN! JOHN, WHERE ARE YOU?!"_

His chest was sticky, and he could _feel_ the thumps more than he hear them, now, the roaring in his head was getting softer, his chest and his shoulder were sticky, which shoulder was supposed to hurt?, and his hands were both shaking, now, and he didn't even bother with his legs, he couldn't, didn't want to, didn't feel like doing that but he felt the black dancing at the edge of his vision, he only saw colors, and he saw black and burgundy and grey and red and… was that blue?

_"JOHN!"_

Blue… blue, it was light blue, it was- it was dark blue, why was there dark blue? There wasn't any, he was blonde, he was wearing…. Why did it matter? What was he wearing? There was blue, it was his jeans but his legs didn't matter, the thumping was getting louder again, it was slower, the roaring in his ears made it silent, made it _deafening_, made everything echo, he could hear and feel nothing and everything all at once. There was more black, too, and his head hurt, and was he breathing?

_"JOHN!"_

There it was, there was a name, no, not the name in his ears, the name in his head, could he say it? He couldn't breathe, there wasn't air, he didn't have lungs, he didn't have blood and his chest was sticky and wet and his hands were shaking. Could he?

"Shh-shh-s-lll'ck-" he coughed, and _oh_, it _hurt_, he was in _anguish_, in _torture_, and now, _now_ he couldn't breathe, he couldn't even make the motions because his chest, his lungs, his whole _body_ was being _ripped apart_, did he have energy, he couldn't see, it was red, all red and black and it _hurt_-

_"JOOOOOOHN!"_

He choked and coughed and spluttered and even though he couldn't _breathe_-

_"SHERLOCK!"_

His hands were shaking and he was scared and he couldn't breathe and now his head was sticky, too, and his face was sticky and wet all over and it burned and it was freezing and the air in his lungs was nonexistent and there was this _pounding_ in his head and his neck and his arms and it made his hands tremble and he raised the one over his chest to move it back down so he could roll over and doze off, because he was tired, _so_ tired, why was he tired? He was alive, sparking with energy, he could feel it, his hands were tingling like pins and needles and he couldn't feel his feet so he just needed to rest but suddenly he couldn't move his hand… and he tried to lift it off of his wet and sticky chest and he could barely see, it was clouded, cloudy, and he raised his hand-

And it was grabbed and his whole world gave a _whoosh_ as it blared back into focus and the ringing in his ears shrieked like a thousand bells and he _roared_ with pain, his back arched and his head dug into the ground and he _screamed_ because he was on _fire_ and it _hurt_ and something was holding his hand and he couldn't breathe and he choked on this useless air, and he was deaf but not blind but he was dizzy and tired, so, _so_ tired, and he looked and there was a hand holding his hand, he only had two hands? And the ground, the walls, the air was wet and sticky and he looked up and- and- and it was _Sherlock_, there, holding his hand, why was he here?

"John- Joohnn, John, don't- don't move, don't worry, don't move, be still, be calm, stay awake- John, look at me, John, come on, John, no- no- don't- look at me- _look at me-_" and suddenly it was his eyes, Sherlock's eyes, right in front of his, and they were wide and they were glossy and bright and white and blue, and- oh, god, had they always been that blue?

He still couldn't breathe but he stared dizzily up into the _blue_ of those eyes and his hand was sticky and wet and there was a new hand, a cool hand under his head and it lifted him up and he opened his mouth to yell and to breathe but he couldn't and his chest was being wrenched apart and he wasn't on fire anymore, no, he was just being _split_ and there was a knife in his chest and it was being twisted and he was being torn apart from the inside out and the blue was fading to red and black but-

"JOHN! John, _no_, John, look at me, look up, stay awake, stay still, come _oonnn_, they're on the way, they're almost here, John, stay awake, John, no- _NO, John_, look at me, John,"

"S-shhh-shh-" the wet and sticky bubbled up in his throat and he coughed and saw red but looked at the blue eyes who were looking at him and he had to ask, why? It wasn't important, but, "Shh-shh-"

"No, John, don't- don't try to-"

"Shhhh-sh-Sherl-Sherlock- am I…. am I dying?" There was air, but there wasn't, and he couldn't breathe but he _tried_ but everything was wet and sticky and the air got stuck but he had to know the answer but why? Why was he asking?

"John, don't- don't ask that, you're- you're-"

"O-obviously." Why did he ask? It was obvious. Was it? Why was his voice shaking? _Obviously_. It was _funny_. It was funny, and he laughed, but the laugh bubbled up with the wet and sticky and he saw red again and the eyes looked away and the blue was gone but he _needed_ the blue-

"John, don't-"

"Well, iffff- if I'm-mm dying, then-" he coughed, and there was the red, but the blue stayed, and he went on with another sticky, red laugh-

"then pl-pllll- please, God, let me live. L-l-" there was more coughing, but why, was there something in his throat? He couldn't breathe, he didn't need to, he was just _tired_, but tired meant black and he wanted the blue, that bright, _spectacular_ blue…

"John, no, don't _say_ that, they're almost here, you're- you're _not_ going to die, John, do you understand? John! John? _You're not going to die!_"

"Shh-shhhh-she-" He coughed again, he was coughing _so much_, but he made it stop, and his mouth filled with red and sticky and his face was wet and sticky but the blue stayed and the hand under his head stayed and the hand in his hand stayed and he raised his other hand, it was shaking, and he raised it up to the blue and put one finger to Sherlock's mouth, he was talking too much right now, he just wanted to _sleep_.

"Shhh- Shhhh- Sherlock- Mm- 'M fine- it's okay, it's," he slurred, and the black danced up to the blue, and he heard something else now, this steady roar and a wail and a ringing again, what was that? He could feel, he could feel this _thing_ in his chest and it didn't quite burn but it _tortured_ him and he couldn't _breathe_-

"J-jus-just… a bit n-not good." He laughed again, it was _funny_ but why was he _laughing_? It was a deep, scarlet, sticky laugh but the blue stayed and his hand dropped down because he was _tired_, he was so, so tired, could he just rest?...

"J-Johhhhnn, John, _no_, John, come on, John, stay _awake,_ it's okay, it's okay, you're going to be _fine,_ they're here, they- John, they're_ right here,_ and they're going to _help_ you, John, _they'll help you- John? John?! JOHN!_ John, help me, John, don't- you'll be fine- _John, stay awake. John? John Hamish Watson, do NOT close your eyes! JOHN!_"

And he heard this and he _tried_ and he kept his eyes looking at the blue but there was a noise, another noise, and it was a wail and a rush of all these new sounds and he just shut them out and tried to _breathe_ and kept looking at the blue and the _pain_… the pain, where was the pain, was it gone? It… no, it was there, but it _wasn't_, it was fading, and the black was dancing, dancing right up to the blue, but the blue got bigger, it was right there, and there was this cool air on his mouth, gently fanning his face, could he breathe? He tried, and he couldn't, but he wanted to try _again_, and he was supposed to stay awake and not close his eyes, were they open? He couldn't tell but he could see the black and blue but then they were gone, suddenly, and sounds came rushing back and there was this _screeching_ wail and voices and shouting and the noise, there was so much noise, but where was the blue? The blue, the _magnificent_, vibrant blue, where was it? He tried to look around but his head was stuck and it was wet and sticky and his chest was wet and sticky and- where was the hand? There was no hand in his and there wasn't one under his neck and he _wondered_ where they were and-

"Shh-" he tried to talk, tried to get the blue, but he couldn't, couldn't breathe, couldn't move, but he _had_ to have the blue because he was told to _NOT close his eyes_ but why would he keep them open if there was no blue?

"Shh-Sh-'lock-ck-" and the _pain_ hit again and his chest was ripped to shreds and he couldn't do anything but writhe in agony but he couldn't move and he had stopped breathing and there were noises and they were back, oh, the _blue_ was _back_ and was it all really blue? No, there was green, but it wasn't green, there were flecks of green and there was white and black but not the _other_ black that was still dancing on the edges but he could keep his eyes open because now there was a reason, right?

"John- John, I'm here, it's okay, you're going to be fine, we're going to the hospital, it's okay, y- you'll be fine, don't worry, _don't worry,_" and the voice was muffled because there was this _thing_ on his mouth and it pushed into him and it suffocated him and he gasped for air and he could inhale and exhale but he couldn't _breathe_ because it hurt and there was a prick in his wrist and he wanted the hand, not this _thing_ on his arm, but the thing stayed and the hand came and it wrapped itself around his and he sighed in relief because now he was scared, was he going to die?

"John, don't worry, just breathe, John, it's okay, you'll be fine, _John, you'll be fine-_ John? John! John, look at me, _look at me, listen_ to me, John,_ breathe! Breathe, and for God's sakes, STAY __**AWAKE**__, JOHN! JOHN?! JOHN, NO, __**JOHN**__!"_


	2. Thirty-five

Thirty-five.

Thirty-five hours.

Thirty-five long, painful hours since John's heart had stopped beating. Sherlock sighed, his face in his hands, rubbing circles into the sides of his forehead.

He had lost track- of the hours passing, that is-, retracting deep into his mind to think and only 'resurfacing' every once in a while to check up on things. But this thirty-five mark was suddenly unbearable.

Of course, it had been approximately thirty-four hours and forty-five minutes since the doctors had made it start again, but that didn't ease the detective's inner turmoil. It had also been thirty-five hours since John had been responsive to external stimuli. _Sherlock's _external stimuli, specifically- their conversation in the alleyway had been the last time John was awake. Thirty-five hours in a comatose state.

Thank god John wasn't quite thirty-five years old, or this would have been the most disgusting piece of irony the detective had ever observed in his _life_. He checked the clock again. Make that thirty-five hours and ten minutes.

The door to the hospital room creaked open, making the tall man raise his head. It was Mycroft. Sherlock almost didn't want to bother with scanning over him, but habit made him do so.

_Dark, three-piece suit, he only wears those on international affair days; no new tan, it's early autumn, so he must have stayed up north. Red tie, what countries have flags with dark colors and red with cloudy weather? Oh, and chocolate, he's got a stain on the corner of his lip. Belgium then. Shoes are wet, dirty but not muddy- he must have left someplace quickly and walked to his car, it's raining out. If they're still wet, it means he came in a hurry, not bothering to wipe them off at the entrance. So he's worried then. Phone had been disturbed in his pocket, the usual lines folded around it weren't snug around its case. He's called someone then. Judging by the high-ranking doctor who let him in, he was probably making calls to the hospital. Unusual darkness around the eyes, he's tired; one corner of his mouth stretched, eyebrows drawn together, so he's also stressed. He's been awake as long as I have; he's also been in Belgium, recently, too recently for him to have changed clothes. Translation: he was in a meeting in Belgium when he heard (and he heard rather late, seeing as it's been thirty-five hours), called the hospital, set up John's upgraded room arrangements, quickly booked his flight here, where it's raining, and is now checking in on him. Or _me.

"How was Belgium?" he mumbled without moving his position as Mycroft started to open his mouth. The elder Holmes paused, backtracking, before he replied.

"Fine, brother." He glanced at John's hospital bed, a look of worry darkening his face again.

_The use of familiar diction, looking at John. So he's worried about _both _of us, then_.

"Sherlock, John would want you to eat," he pressed gently, and Sherlock suddenly yanked himself to his feet, storming over to his brother. His eyes glinted dangerously, and when he spoke, his voice rumbled in his throat.

"_**Don't**_," he snarled, "_use _him to _get _something out of me."

The two men stared each other down; the room was silent, spare the steady hums and beeps of the machines by the doctor's hospital bed. Slicing blue eyes met glittering grey ones, battling out an unspoken argument. Mycroft was the first to look away; at that, Sherlock whirled around, starting to pace back and forth.

"I don't trust any of these doctors on him. I want someone I trust." As irrational and impossible as it was, the only doctor Sherlock trusted to fix John was, well, John.

"I have the best doctors in the country watching him," Mycroft retorted stiffly, as if offended by the mere _thought _of ordering second-rate practitioners to work on John Watson.

"I don't _trust _them," Sherlock hissed, turning around to glare at his brother. "They aren't good enough; they might not do something properly. I want someone I _trust_," he repeated, "to work on him."

"Well." Mycroft narrowed his eyes. "Be glad that person isn't Miss _Hooper_."

Sherlock visibly flinched. That was too far.

"Now." Mycroft abruptly steered the subject away from his harsh retort. "I suggest you go back to aiding the police in this case before you drive the doctors all mad."

"No." Sherlock slumped into the chair by John's bedside, back to rubbing circles on his forehead.

"No?"

"No. What if he wakes up? What if he- if he-"

"You will be alerted if so much as a single hair moves on his head. I'll see to it."

Sherlock sighed loudly, glancing up at the elder Holmes, who raised an eyebrow.

"There's a cab waiting outside to take you to the station. I'd hate for you to keep him waiting."

The detective narrowed his eyes at his brother before jumping to his feet again. He walked over to the door, fixing his scarf, before turning to glance forlornly and the motionless doctor. Well, not totally motionless- the shallow rise and fall of his chest proved he was breathing. Which was better than-

Well. Sherlock took one last glance around the room before stepping out. It was better than thirty-five hours and fifteen minutes ago.

Once he stepped through the station doors, Sherlock was greeted with a grave-looking Inspector Lestrade.

"How's he doing?" he asked, straightening with a look of worry on his face. Sherlock subconsciously scanned over him before replying.

New clothes since yesterday- they're brighter, but not cleanly pressed- he must have put them on quickly. Too-focused eyes, so he didn't sleep well and is currently relying on tea for energy. Ink stain on his fingertips, so he's been writing; muddy shoes, so he's recently been out; therefore he's been interviewing witnesses of the break-in. Wringing his hands, he's impatient, creased forehead, he's worried. Probably awaiting information on the case while simultaneously worried about John. Taking a quick look around, Sherlock found the same careful, worried look on every face. They were all worried about the doctor.

"He's, ah, stable. Unresponsive as of late," he admitted, "but stable."

A collective sigh was emitted from everyone in the room- even Anderson and Donovan looked a bit less strained.

"Well. That's, uhm, good. Better." Lestrade cleared his throat before moving on.

"We've just got the security cameras from the streets, and we're uploading them now. They'll be on the screen in a moment. Meanwhile, we've got people interviewing witnesses of the break-in, doing damage control, finding out everything we can; number of victims, suspects, number of suspects, anything. Th-"

"Inspector, the cameras are up." A woman walked into the room, holding a USB drive in her hand.

"Perfect. Everyone else, keep working, finding information. Donovan, Sherlock, Eastlake, with me."

Anderson gritted his teeth, staring after the four as they walked towards an investigation room near Lestrade's office. Sherlock said nothing.

Lestrade shut the door behind them, plugging in the flash drive to the main computer while Darcy Eastlake, the woman with the files, sat at the desk. Several screens on the wall flickered to life, showing motionless security camera videos. For once, Donovan didn't make a snide remark as she and Sherlock hovered next to the detective inspector, eyes on the screens.

"Alright, Sherlock, what time did the chase start?"

"About two thirty-five, on the corner of Caversham and Hammond." Darcy pressed some buttons, and suddenly Sherlock and John were on-screen on one of the many TVs in the room. Muted noises came from the speakers, which Lestrade turned up a bit.

"Is sound really going to help?" Donovan muttered. Lestrade shrugged.

"Maybe. I don't know, but I'm not about to miss anything." He turned it up even more before Darcy pressed play.

The video kept going, with video-Sherlock-and-John standing outside a nearby flat. Suddenly, there was a loud crash as a person in a long, black coat burst through a window. The doctor and detective burst into action, sprinting after the suspect. As soon as they disappeared from the first screen, they appeared on another, rushing down the sidewalk of Caversham. Video-Sherlock soon took the lead between him and his partner; even though John was ex-army, the detective's long legs and stride gave him much-needed speed.

As they appeared on the third screen, Sherlock jumped. "Wait- stop it! Stop it, right there, and zoom in on his face."

Darcy froze the video, and soon an image of the culprit's face appeared on a larger screen; even though it was a bit fuzzy, it was the unmistakable face of Jim Moriarty.

"That's him," Sherlock growled. Lestrade nodded, a grim look on his face.

"And the person you were chasing hadn't changed as of then?"

"No. He'd been in my sight the whole time so far."

"Good. So, confirmed, it's Moriarty. Now, keep going."

Donovan turned to Lestrade. "But- we know who it is! He was there!"

Lestrade turned on Donovan while Sherlock stiffened behind him, both men suddenly fuming. "And yet, Sally," he spat venomously, "he also managed to shoot Doctor Watson a kilometer away during the chase. Doesn't that strike you as a bit odd?"

She fell silent. Lestrade took a deep breath before turning back to the screens. "Keep going, Eastlake."

The videos resumed again, with the chase continuing across several screens, through alleys and across streets. Each time they zoomed in, the face of the man in question was, without a doubt, Moriarty.

Sherlock's eyes never left the screen; they probably hadn't blinked since the tapes had started. He took in every detail, confirming he remembered everything with slight nods of affirmation every so often.

Sherlock and John dashed across the street after the man, who took another turn and darted out of an alleyway into an oncoming street. From the camera's vantage point, it could make out Moriarty's face as he froze, trying to decide which way to take.

A shout from Sherlock was heard, and Moriarty scampered to his right. John and Sherlock came on-screen, bursting out of the alleyway; suddenly, the video skipped, and several black smudges appeared; seconds later, Sherlock was dashing off-screen in the direction of the culprit, with John behind him, but they were several meters ahead of where they were.

"Oh, this stupid-! Come on!" Lestrade pounded a fist on the table. "Darcy, is there any way to fix that?"

"Not really, sir," she admitted. "I can't do much for poor video quality."

Lestrade muttered a curse under his breath. Donovan crossed her arms, leaning back on her heels. They continued to watch the video; it continued as 'normally', without any further interruptions, until Anderson burst into the room. Sherlock turned as Darcy paused the video.

_Coat rumpled, ink on his hands- so he _has _been working. What a surprise. Shoes are dry, he hasn't been outside, though his walkie-talkie has been messily put back; he's gotten a call. Eyes bright- did they...?_

"Sir," he panted, practically bouncing on his toes. "It's him. Moriarty. They found him, they're chasing down his car, he's-"

Lestrade was already dashing towards the door, adjusting his coat collar. Donovan rushed after him, followed by Sherlock. The consulting detective checked his phone as the walked out onto the street; seconds later, a message blinked on the screen. _Mycroft_.

_No change. Stable heart rate, still unconscious. -MH_

Sherlock sighed and ducked into a police cab with Lestrade and Donovan, who gave him a glance.

"What, catching this criminal isn't _exciting _enough for you?"

"Do you call riding around London in a police car an _exciting _experience?" he snapped, giving her a cold glare.

"Inspector Lestrade, this is Police Cab Thirty-five, I have Moriarty on target, we're in pursuit."

"Detective Inspector, this is Police Cab Twenty-eight, I'm trailing thirty-five and the criminal."

"Cabs thirty-five, twenty-eight, keep trailing him. _Don't lose him_. Turn on your tracker, we'll catch up."

The cab peeled away from the curb, sirens blaring. Sherlock checked his phone before stuffing it into his pocket. _Thirty-six hours_.

_Thirty-six._

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**First of all, thank you so much to anyone who reviewed, I mean asdfghjkl it's great to have feedback on something I've written hahah. **

**This story has officially assumed the time period after _Hounds_, but it's in a sort-of AU (I guess?) where Reichenbach doesn't and won't happen. And, for the sake of my story, John is 34 and Sherlock is about 32. I don't know exactly how old BBC's _Sherlock _is making them, so I'll make it up myself.**

**And another thing; as much as I love Sherlock, and love hearing how he thinks and dissecting his deductions, I find it a bit difficult to wrap my brain around properly writing his point of view. It's hard to make genius seem realistically written, where it allows insight to his mind while also staying in his so-called cold and emotionless character all the while staying on track of the story. Any long paragraphs/studies of people in italics are his little internal split-second deductions; I wanted to show his train of thought, but it's hard to do so and make you realize 'by the way, this never-ending paragraph happens internally in less than a half-second.' So there's that, and my grasp of his character and his mindset will hopefully improve as the story goes on.**

**Also apologizing in advance for any incorrect or nonsensical British terminology, since I'm bound to slip up sometime. Actually, I apologize for any incorrect terminology of any kind; if you see something that doesn't quite make sense, please let me know so I can fix it (I hate when I'm confused while reading something, especially my own work)!**

**That's pretty much it for now; I hope you enjoyed this chapter, and again, reviewing/criticism is greatly appreciated :)**


	3. The Smell of Salt

"_**What do you MEAN, you've LOST him?!"**_

Lestrade slammed the door of the police car shut, stomping towards the other men.

"We were trailing him, and he turned into the alley, and-and we got stuck behind the dustcart, and by the time we could turn in, the car was gone! Of course, cameras tracked a similar black car leaving the opposite end of the alleyway, and we managed to get that pulled over, but it was just a random person."

"Did you at _least _send them in for questioning?" Lestrade was spitting mad, nearly yanking out tufts of his hair as he seethed with infuriation.

"Y-yes, of course, Inspector!"

"Did you get the waste truck's information?" Sherlock growled from behind Lestrade. Both men started and turned to him.

"Uhh- no." The policeman's voice came out as a squeak.

"Well, then, unless you've scoured these two buildings _already _for _any _traces of Moriarty, then you've just let our literally biggest clue yet simply drive away. Lestrade, send in a search team to every surrounding building, definitely these two. Find any side entrances, doors, windows, even ventilationairways, drainage pipes, _manholes. _Search everything. Send out an alert for any garbage trucks within five miles. I suppose he's already switched cars again, but we may find something in them."

Lestrade nodded, already shouting orders at the other officers. A team of agents swarmed the alleyway, and it was soon full of police dogs as well, scouring the sides of the edifices. The two detectives- one consulting, the other, an inspector- stood side-by-side in the chaos.

"What a... what a _stupid _man," Lestrade sneered.

_Oh, don't worry, Inspector. They're all stupid. It's not like the police will find anything that wasn't left on purpose, anyways. _Sherlock bit back his response, instead turning his attention to the scene. _Just _look _at this alleyway- cleaned, and recently, too, judging by the lack of residue on the lower bricks and concrete. Power-washed as well, by the looks of it, which is suspicious. Why would a decrepit alleyway be remarkably clean? _Sherlock took a few steps forward, assessing the scene. _Air conditioning vent is recently unhinged- a screw missing, how _messy, _that's obviously a decoy. Windows all shut with no irregular dust patterns, a few hidden cobwebs intact- either Moriarty has become _spectacularly _impeccable beyond human capabilities, or the windows are untouched. No, they won't find anything in these buildings. _Sherlock jumped as a drop of rain hit his nose. _Oh, perfect. Let's destroy any forensic evidence; which is exactly how he planned it, of course. Of course. What else? A few empty cardboard boxes by the back step- they've been there a while- a few shiny unclosed rubbish bins..._

"_We got stuck behind the dustcart, and..."_

_Now, why would a dustcart be unloading shiny, clean bins full of garbage into an alleyway and leaving them open? Unless..._

"Lestrade, get everyone out of there. _Now." _

"But-"

Sherlock didn't hear him protest; he merely grabbed an uncovered garbage bin, shut it, and dragged it out of the alleyway. Lestrade mumbled something under his breath before shouting at everyone to clear out. Grudgingly, the team did so, and not a second too late- as soon as the droplets turned into a true London drizzle, each opened can exploded, letting out enormous blasts of fire and burning metal.

Donovan turned to Sherlock, a look of genuine shock on her face. "H-how?" She screeched. "How did you _know?!_"

"I'll explain at the lab; I'll need to look at the contents of this bin. Are we going to use a police car, or shall I call a cab?"

_Thirty-eight hours, thirty minutes. _The consulting detective had piled into the police car with Lestrade, Donovan, and his garbage can, and the three had driven to the lab fairly quickly. Sherlock wasted no time in going through the contents; after he had dumped them out on a table, it took the detective all of three seconds to find what he was looking for.

"What is _that?_" Sally had growled, regarding the lump of salt now in Sherlock's hand. It was roughly the size of a cricket ball, but much lighter, with two protruding wires. Sherlock slid it under his microscope and was now examining the ball intently.

"Well, if I had to guess, I'd say it was some sort of bomb," Lestrade mumbled around a donut. He had obviously taken to the lab's break room fairly quickly upon arrival.

"You would be correct, Inspector," Sherlock murmured, fiddling with the lens. "It's a salt bomb, if I had to name it."

"That- that doesn't exist." Sally crossed her arms and shot a glance in the direction of either detective.

"Go on, Sherlock. Explain it to us," Lestrade prompted. Sherlock barely suppressed a shudder- this was _not _an audience he appreciated, and not one that would appreciate him. Not like...

"Think of it, Miss Donovan," Sherlock drawled with a hint of annoyance, "as an upgraded version of a bath bomb. You place it in water, it begins to fizz and degrade until it eventually dissolves into the water. This was very similar and barely detectable. In that mound of rubbish you'll most definitely find some salt packets and empty boxes for simple office copper wires, too. Now, this bomb is set off by water- if it had rained into the uncovered bins, the salt would have dissolved." Sherlock, while speaking, had carefully chipped away at the salt ball until a yellowish, oily liquid had seeped onto the pallette. The two wires were also connected to what looked like a miniature stick of dynamite.

"If this salt had eroded away, it would have released this liquid onto this." He held up the small explosive, eyes still trained on his work. "Now, that wouldn't have done anything-yet." He slid the explosive away from him on the desk before standing.

"If it had continued to rain into the bins- which it did-" he rummaged through one of the cabinets, taking out a small dropper and filling it with water from the tap before resuming his work. "This... would have happened."

He slid the oiled pallette out from under the microscope and carefully let a drop of water hit the substance. Immediately, it shot out sparks, making the two police workers jump back, startled. Sherlock tossed the dropper into the sink before standing and placing the pallette into a fridge for safekeeping.

Sally looked down, murmuring something under her breath- Sherlock didn't doubt for a second it wasn't the word "freak." Lestrade looked mildly impressed; but then again, he always did.

"That was quick, Sherlock. You're still on your game, then," Sally pointed out.

A heavy silence seeped into the air. Sherlock felt suffocated by her unspoken words- _You're still fine, then, even after your best friend was shot and stopped breathing not two days ago._ He glanced at the clock without realizing. _Thirty-eight hours, forty minutes. Stupid, stupid, stupid._

"Lestrade, are your people still investigating the garbage trucks and specific cars?" The consulting detective's voice was eerily calm.

Lestrade cleared his throat. "Uhm, yes, they are."

"Get them all to the station. Let the dogs smell this salt and-" Sherlock pushed some of the salt into a bag and tossed it to the detective before grabbing a cloth, soaking it in the oil, and putting it in another bag- "and this oil. Anyone with traces of either is an immediate suspect."

Lestrade nodded solemnly before he strode out. Donovan, however, stayed, wringing her hands.

"Look, Holmes- I wasn't- er-"

"Then, what, exactly, was your point?" Sherlock's face was a mixture of taunting, wide eyes and glaring, narrowed eyebrows. It unnerved the policewoman, and she turned her unease into a spitting retort.

"Nothing, Holmes," she snapped loftily, backing away. "It's just that it was a rather quick deduction."

"I do deduce quickly."

"_Much _faster," she went on, giving him a pointed glare, "than usual. Much faster than when John's around. Have you noticed how easily Lestrade follows your orders? Then again, he's seemed a bit preoccupied. He keeps glancing out his window, towards the hospital. But yeah; just something I've noticed today, his _willingness _to comply. I mean, you're suddenly snapping them out so quickly, too. I'm just... thinking_, _Holmes." And with that, she spun on her heel, slamming the door behind her. The room was silent.

Sherlock sighed, curling and uncurling his hands into fists. He shook his head after a moment as if rattling his brain into a different mindset before he walked over to the rubbish pile, sifting through the paper and cardboard. He saw a crumpled yellow paper and pulled it out, unfolding it as he did. It smelled of salt, oddly enough; much more so than anything else from inside the bin.

_"Hello, my dear Sherlock, and congratulations in advance of your deduction of the salt bombs. Clever, yes? London has yet to realise the people to suspect are the ones you never notice: garbage workers... people in heavy clothing on the streets... 'Rebels' who graffiti... Cab drivers. Ah, yes, that was a weak moment for you. Itching to beat this old man in a game of intellect and chance at the same time. You almost took the pill, didn't you? Something inside you, screaming to undergo this battle of wits. You're lucky Doctor Watson is such a crack shot._

_Of course, I didn't miss, either. Obviously. If I had wanted him dead, Sherlock, he wouldn't have had the chance to scream your name. Funny, isn't it? I thought it was funny. He didn't scream "help," he screamed, "Sherlock." What can __**you **__do that no one else can?_

_Oh, but I hope he's doing well, actually. I would hate for either of you to be... eliminated from this game before it was over. I've decided it's a game of chess. The reasoning is simple- chess has pawns. A king can move his pawns however he likes. As slowly or as quickly or as clearly or as messily as you want, people can be guided to a certain conclusion, to a certain square on the board, without ever knowing you made that decision for them. From a crystal-clear, impeccable, flawless precision of deception to a smudged, erased, muddied, littered mess of confusion... Oh, yes, it is marvelously easy to move, to sway, to...sacrifice a pawn._

_What are you willing to sacrifice, in order to kill a King?_

_Yours,_

_Jim Moriarty"_

_**What are you willing to sacrifice, in order to kill a King?**_

Sherlock wasn't sure exactly how it happened, or _when _it happened, but suddenly, he was in their flat on Baker Street, slumped in his chair The salty paper trembled slightly in his shaking hands. Shaking with, what, fear, desperation, rage? He didn't know.

_What are you willing to sacrifice, in order to kill a King?_

_Oh, yes, it is marvelously easy... to sacrifice a pawn._

He glanced at the clock, then checked his phone. _Forty hours, twenty minutes. No new messages._

The consulting detective sighed, leaning forward and placing the letter smelling of salt by his shoes. He put his head in his hands and rubbed his temples.

_What are you willing to sacrifice?_

__This was new. Sherlock had never felt lost, really.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**You guys' reviews literally make my life oh my god. They're the greatest.**

**I've decided I'm suffering, not from writer's block, but from writer's agitation. The words and the plot are rushing out, but every single scene I write turns into this massive, climatic moment or argument and I have to keep telling myself, "Whoa, hold on, it's only chapter _three,_" and I go back and change it. But don't worry; I keep the drafts for use later on, and it'll pay off. I promise no filler chapters, either; they might vary in length but never too much in importance. This is the fourth version of this chapter I've written, though; I honestly feel like a dog chained to a fence because I keep having to reign it in and build up angst and suspense haha. I hope it's working.**

**So, yes, a little sneak peak at Moriarty and a bit more on Sherlock. Thanks again for reading, and comments/reviews/criticisms are greatly appreciated :)**


	4. Nine

"_BORED!"_

He was now in possession of a slingshot.

Mrs. Hudson, the poor woman, looked terrified as she stood in the doorway. So did Lestrade, though he was sitting on the couch. He'd been there for a while, though Sherlock hadn't really taken notice. His gaze flitted over Mrs. Hudson. _Recently gone out shopping; there's mud on her shoes, and it stopped raining recently. She's been at Tesco's, the bags in her hands suggest it was merely for food. She bought milk three days ago; so it's for us, then. Hmm. Good, we were out of milk, I was about to text-_

Sherlock rolled over on the couch with a huff before standing, a flurry of movement in his blue dressing gown. His landlady- _not _his housekeeper, she chided- went to set the groceries in the fridge. Sherlock tossed his slingshot to the side before beginning to pace.

"Sherlock, where's your phone? I texted you, asking if-"

"Somewhere. In the flat. Doesn't matter." He waved his hand dismissively, still pacing, before he broke the silence again.

"Do you know how long it's been, Mrs. Hudson?"

"It's been ten days," she replied quietly. Sherlock looked at her, eyes wild in confusion.

"What? Oh, no, of course not. _Nine_. It's been nine days."

Lestrade cut in worriedly. "No, Sherlock, for _ten _days he's been-"

"Nine! And he's been _silent_, dead silent for nine whole days! Why? Is he doing it on _purpose_? What, what, what is he _waiting _for?" Sherlock muttered, scratching his head.

Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson exchanged worried glances. "Sherlock, wh-who- what are you talking about?"

"Why, Moriarty, of course." Sherlock rolled his eyes. _Simple, simple minds. Can't even figure that out_. "His last little trick with the garbage bins wasn't even all that difficult to deduce; so why, why, why is he laying low? Why is he _hiding_?"

"So you're not-" Lestrade broke off with a sigh, shaking his head. "You know what? Nevermind. Yes, Moriarty's been silent for quite some time. We don't know why- everyone at the station is holding their breath."

_Rumpled shirt- three, no, two days old. Jeans, folds at the knees where he's been sitting down. Dark circles under his eyes, strained forehead, coffee stain on his shirt sleeve and crumbs around his mouth. Shoes caked with mud, some of it from yesterday; he's been out, probably searching for clues. A slight tremble in his hands; barely noticeable, but it gives away his agitation and exhaustion. The station's been busy, yes. Productive? Unlikely._

"I assume you've done away with the garbageman."

"Nah, we're still holding him. He won't say a word, even though we found him with the salt and oil. The dogs went crazy, Sherlock- but you were there, you know that."

"He hasn't said anything?"

"Nope. Nothing at all."

"Let me speak to him." Sherlock started towards the door, and Lestrade nearly choked.

"Sherlock, dear!" Mrs. Hudson stopped him. "You can't go out in your dressing gown, that's just- it's 1:00 in the afternoon!"

"Oh. Right. My mistake." He looked down, rattling his head a bit before turning and striding down the hall. Lestrade and Mrs. Hudson exchanged glances, again.

"Inspector, I'm _worried_." Mrs. Hudson waved him downstairs, shutting the door to 221B. "He's faster than ever; oh, he deduces _everything_; but he's not... he's paying attention more than ever, and yet, he's not. I'm rather worried. The old Sherlock would _never _have tried to leave the flat without wearing his coat and nice clothes. He seems so preoccupied, and yet- and yet-"

"And yet he's seemingly unfazed by John's state? Ten days, and the only thing that's happened to the man was when he took a deeper breath a few days ago. I don't _like _it, Mrs. Hudson. This- this mystery of Sherlock's brain, piled onto being constantly on the watch for Moriarty, _along with _worrying if John will wake up."

"Oh- I'm sure he will, Inspector. John's not really one for leaving people; he'll come to in time."

_How much time?_, Lestrade wondered, scratching the back of his head.

"Yeah, well. We've had a few odds-and-ends cases, you know; a runaway teenager, some small robberies. I've piled them onto Sherlock- God, it's like finding something to entertain a child, just to keep him busy, y'know? But I do it, and I know his mind is grateful- even if he isn't, and even if it's momentarily. Half the time he just scampers around London, doing who-knows-_what_. Has he- you know- have you seen him visit the hospital, since that first day?"

Mrs. Hudson shook her head wearily. "And if he has, he hasn't spoken about it. His brother, Mycroft, would be the better person to ask if you want to know what Sherlock's doing."

They both pretended not to notice she hadn't said _best- _there was really only one man who could properly keep track of the detective, and he wasn't around.

"Right, well. We'll be off then." Lestrade started for the door as Sherlock appeared at the top of the stairs, dressed in his usual attire.

"Now, I'm going to be honest, I don't expect him to say much," Inspector Dimmock said with a weary sigh, glancing at the files. "We've held him here for a good seventy-two hours, _constantly _monitoring him for anything, but we don't have anything. Not even a name. We're-" he glanced up as the door opened, his mouth going into a thin line as he saw the tall consulting detective enter the room.

"Inspector Dimmock," Sherlock rumbled coolly, glancing through the window at the 'garbage man.' _Tall, lean arm muscles, especially on his right, strong legs; no contacts or glasses, he isn't squinting, so fairly excellent vision; cuts under his chin, scruff growing back; he's operated between growing and shaving a beard and mustache. Impatient tapping on the desk; slight ring around one eye from repeated pressure, as well as early-onset wrinkles that are asymmetrical; messy, plainclothes hair; large feet, planted firmly on the ground yet light enough to stand quickly; other than the fingers, tense, yet still. Smoker? No, his breathing is perfectly regular, barely noticeable. Lowered brows, wide eyes; he's intelligent, too, then. Otherwise, he would have talked already. Silence shows some sort of dedication to a mission, especially concerning his emotionless expression. Hardly anyone can undergo holding in a police station for over a day without displaying anxiety. This man is good at staying perfectly still and waiting._

"Well, let's have a look at our sniper-slash-garbage man, shall we? Of course, none of you had figured that out yet, but still," Sherlock said, glancing around the room. Anderson scoffed, and Donovan curled her lip. Inspector Dimmock bit back a sigh as he opened the door to the holding cell.

Sherlock stepped through the door; instead of opting for the chair, he stood behind it, perfectly statuesque, watching the man. He glanced at each wall in succession, slowly turning around; first, the wall behind the man; then the one opposite the window; third, the one behind himself; then, the one with the door and 'mirror-' the window for the police to watch. Everyone on the other side of the fourth wall collectively drew in a breath.

"How does an ex-militant sharpshooter end up driving a garbage truck? Please, do tell me everything I need to know. I'm intrigued, honestly."

The man let out a short laugh, his eyes widening slightly; he was obviously not expecting the question. "So _you're _Sherlock Holmes."

"The one and only." He was met by silence, which he broke again with a harsher, sarcastic line: "In conversation, it's considered _polite _to offer your name after the indulger has stated _theirs_."

"Yeah, well, I don't do niceties."

"Oh, shame." Sherlock pulled out the chair and flounced- there really wasn't another word for the way he sat- into it, eyeing the man.

"So. Again. How _does _an ex-militant sharpshooter end up driving a garbage truck?"

"Difficult times. Army pension's terrible; but then, you would know that." The man's mouth twitched up into a smile, and Sherlock's gaze turned to ice.

"The tan line of the watch around your wrist suggests money isn't a problem for you. Neither does your posture or word fluency; you've come from a good school, meaning money. The cuts from your expensive razor aren't really working in your favor. No, smart men are never poor; which also begs the question- if you're not a complete dolt, why let yourself be captured? That's not really a _clever _move." The intercom buzzed, and Sherlock ignored it.

"Not gonna get that? Your friends are calling." The man sat back as much as he could with his wrists handcuffed to the table.

"I don't have friends."

"Nope, you've just got one," the man mocked, making Sherlock's blood run cold. _How...? _"And he almost died." The man raised his eyebrows innocently. "Don't you feel guilty, Sherlock? Remorseful?"

It was silent. The intercom stopped buzzing.

The man let out a heavy sigh, rolling his eyes before he leaned forward, placing his elbows on the table. "Leaving me to do all the talking? Well, it's a nice change. I _let _myself be captured because it was a strategic move. Don't let those idiot coppers think for a moment they caught me of their own accord. I'm not a stupid pawn."

_It is marvelously easy to move, to sway, to... sacrifice a pawn._

"So what are you, then? En_light_en me."

The man smiled wickedly. "I'm a rook."

"Crook? As in criminal?"

"No. A _rook_; you know, the chess piece? They can move in any cardinal direction. I told you I wasn't a pawn." The man laughed, while Sherlock maintained a stone-cold glare. The intercom buzzed again; they both ignored it.

"Oh, you're no fun, then. Sarcasm aside, I guess you could say I'm a... henchman, of sorts."

"Oh, how quaint."

"It's _humble_," the man snarled, bristling like- well, like a giant dog, before relaxing. "I would say partners in crime, but he and I aren't exactly on the same level, now, are we? We work together; I get the fun parts."

"So you know."

"That he's a mad genius?" The man grinned. "Yes. Of course. That _you're _a genius, as well?" An exaggerated frown slid onto his face. "Well. That's what I had been told."

Sherlock practically bared his teeth; if human ears could flatten, his would have. "No- so you know where _he _is. You're partners."

"Wha- oh!" The man threw his head back, laughing loudly. "You think- oh, god, no, Mister Holmes. Moriarty moves wherever he wants. When he wants me, he finds me. Simple as that."

Sherlock sighed loudly, pushing to get out of his chair. The man sobered up immediately. "Wait- where are you going? I was just warming up."

"I thought you would be useful. You've proven me wrong, apparently."

"Now, hey- I'm useful, just cryptic."

"Is that what Moriarty tells you? Ooh, you're such a good pet for him. We geniuses do get attached, you know. You're so cute when you're stubbornly loyal. Stupid, yet loyal."

"I'm not _stupid, _like your Doctor Watson was when he let Moriarty _shoot him_," the man hissed. Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"John at _least _has enough brain cells to realize when he's been fooled. You don't, of course." Sherlock sighed, heading towards the door. "You're just another one of Moriarty's trigger-pullers. Nothing special; nothing important."

"_I'm not __**useless**__!" _The man roared, trying to yank himself up from the table.

"Oh, really? Quite the temper there; that can't be good. John's always had such a quiet temper."

"I _know _that!" he roared, trying to break his cuffs. "I _know _I'm not useless; I _know _John's got a great temper. I've been watching- longer than you have!"

"Oh, I don't think so."

"I _know _so!"

"Oh, another thing; I do know Moriarty likes to have fun, but he's a terrible shot. If you're so _good _at what you do, why would he shoot John himself?"

"Because he- shut _up_!" The man was struggling like a dog chained to a fence. "_I'm from the _Army_! I was in the third damn Northumberland fusiliers! _I'm a _perfect shot_!"

"Of course you are. Thank you for your time. You've given me all the information I'll need, really."

"You didn't even get my _name!"_

"Why would I care?" Sherlock opened the door, glancing at the man. "I'm after the real game; Moriarty's. You _are _a pawn, and you've been captured. Even if I did want your name, you've already given it to me. Thank you for your time."

"I know Moriarty's game!"

Sherlock stopped. "Oh, really?"

"Yes. He's quite the master at chess. You're going to _lose_. You'll lose _everything_."

Sherlock let the door slam shut, realizing he was walking into an empty room, spare one woman scribbling notes into a large file marked '9-10.' _Small file, not too much information. Nine, he's been here nine days, but they wouldn't mark a ten; they can hold him as long as they want. She's right-handed, been writing a while; recording the conversation, perhaps? Her ID's on the table beside her; can't make out her name, but by the smaller lettering and lack of medallions on her clothes, she's most likely new. Not someone close to Lestrade, so not high up on the chain of command. An Agent, then. _

"Where is everyone?"

"Oh, Lestrade said to tell you-"

"And you are?" he interrupted.

"Oh- um. Agent Bristow. I stayed to record your conversation."

"You're looking for a man, early forties, who served at least five years in the third Northumberland fusiliers in Afghanistan; a regular, though, not a Captain or Lieutenant. Most likely no more than ten years. A sniper or sharpshooter, though most likely the former. Left-handed. He is, of course, working with Moriarty. Check if any of the army men have recently purchased weaponry; handguns, snipers, even ammunition." _Please, do tell me everything I need to know... You've given me all the information I'll need, really._ "The Inspector's message?"

"Oh, yes. Sorry, um... he said it was something about Jacob."

"Jacob?"

"N- no, not a Jacob. Sorry, I'm terrible with my memory at times."

"Obviously." Sherlock glanced through the halfway window; the man was positively fuming, but sitting quite still. _A _rook_; you know, the chess piece? They can move in any cardinal direction._

"George- James? Jamie? no... it was.. something about a... Jonathan?"

Sherlock's head snapped back. "John?"

"Yes. That was it, John." Agent Bristow nodded her head, curls bouncing. "John... John had- something about the monitors? He had stopped them or something. They... um. Sorry, I'm not too sure..."

Sherlock strode out of the door before she even finished speaking. He reached into his pocket for his phone, but came up empty-handed.

"Stupid, stupid, _stupid!" _He growled, hailing a taxi.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Ah, yes. Filler chapters? No. Cliffhangers? Um, yes. Sorry about them, though, I hate reading them as much as the next person. I'll throw you some ropes in the next chapter, I promise.**

**Also, sorry this chapter's taken a bit longer than the rest. I've been rather busy this week; and unfortunately, I'm going on vacation for most of next week, with limited internet access. I will write, though, and upload a bunch of good stuff the week after.**

**No but you guys don't under_stand _how excited I am about this story, because I had an epiphany the other day and I now know what I'm going to do for Moriarty's game and all these little fangirlish details I'm going to write in and just, ohmygosh it's exciting.**

**It's getting harder to keep Sherlock in the character I want him to stay in. Whenever I think of the Holmes-Watson relationship, I realize they do rely on each other quite a lot; however, I don't necessarily agree with post-Reichenbach John 'breaking down' and giving up, nor do I particularly like stories where John is hurt/gone and Sherlock is a mess of wild emotion and deduction. John brings out the better emotions in Sherlock; in my opinion, when John leaves, Sherlock loses a lot of his personality other than the cold, deducing detective he is. I'm trying to add his infamous 'sassy Sherlock' remarks into his cold, calculating, 'unattached' self right now; because I see Sherlock becoming unattached if John ever left. He would never abandon the work; he would abandon anything but, and become obsessed; hence, his obsession with Moriarty and lack of remorse for John, and how half the time he blurts out deductions and others he stops himself because he realizes he isn't speaking to John. Sherlock's in a difficult place right now, and as he's never really dealt with too much emotion in his lifetime, he's going back to what he knows how to do.**

**So, yeah, that's my explanation for any harsh/mean/slightly-OOC Holmes you might be seeing. I'll fix it, don't worry haha.**

**Five points to anyone who figures anything out, sees specific details, decodes a few certain choice words, all that stuff; I don't know about anyone else, but whenever I read a foreshadowing/allusion element in a story that refers to something in the shows or something big about to happen, I practically squeal. And I love writing them in. So there's that.**

**One last thing before my author's note becomes longer than the chapter itself- I prrrobably won't usually reply to a review, but not because I'm trying to be above it all or rude or anything (I promise I'm not!). If I haven't replied, it's most likely because I'm too busy having a mini-seizure from excitement. I'm serious. I've actually bounced up and down in my chair while reading reviews, I _love _that people are reading and liking and commenting on my story.**

**Thanks for reading, again! Comments/critiques/reviews are greatly appreciated :)**


	5. Four

"_Sherlock Holmes!_"

"Yes, it's me."

"How _dare _you?!"

"Oh, do tell what I've done this time, Inspector." Sherlock snapped his laptopshut with a huff, bouncing back into the chair. He was still in the investigation room; Agent Bristow hadn't been there when he'd returned.

"Oh, no. Don't you even _think _of using your snobbish voice in this situation, _detective_," Lestrade snarled.

Sherlock almost growled animalistically in response. He was _busy_. "Get to your point."

"My _point_, Sherlock, is that _John H. Watson_- your best friend, yeah? Your _flatmate_? You remember him? He almost _died._"

"He assuredly did not. I found an email on my laptop from Mycroft; the wire measuring his heart monitor merely had a malfunction."

"Yeah, well, while you were _sitting on your ass _playing _games _with our _suspect_, the majority of the _POLICE DEPARTMENT _was _TAKING YOUR PLACE_! Sherlock, you needed to _be there_, you dolt!"

"I was not playing _games_," Sherlock retorted. "I was gathering information. I found plenty for you to go off, really. Agent... Bristow, was it? Yes- she's looking into it." _So am I, _he added internally, but the inspector didn't need to know exactly how many confidential files he had access to.

"I notice you're blatantly ignoring the more _important _part of that- just like you ignored the intercom," Lestrade hissed. "Listen- _you _should be the one over there, worrying about John! We thought he had _died_- _again!_"

"Well, he hasn't, now, has he?" Sherlock snapped. "If you really don't mind, I'm working here. You can try to interrogate him again, if you'd like."

"Oh, yes. Wouldn't want you to be _distracted_. Tell me, Sherlock; what is John going to think if he wakes up and you're not there?"

_**When. **_When _he wakes up, not _if.

Sherlock nearly fell out of the chair at his internal voice before recovering quickly. "You tell me, Lestrade; you'll be there to see his reaction, anyways, since you and your _department _have 'taken my place,' as you so phrased it. Now, I have work to do, unlike you simple-minded people who are sitting there worrying."

"_Sherlock!"_

"_WHAT?!"_

Lestrade was silent for a moment. "You know  
what? Sod this. Sod _you_, you machine. _You emotionless __**machine**_. God, and I thought you cared about him, you know? Do you, really?"

The detective flipped around without replying, taking a half-intrigued glance around the room before opening his laptop again. He ignored the detective as he left, typing away until Lestrade came back with Donovan, Anderson, and another agent.

"Right." Lestrade sighed before gesturing to the man; Sherlock kept an eye on the four as he worked. "Okay, so, Golding, you'll be in charge of the interrogation. _If the intercom buzzes, come out here_," he growled, casting a glance at Sherlock, who rolled his eyes. The fourth detective- Golding- nodded his head and walked in. The man in the interrogation room didn't even bat an eye; Sherlock stood, raising an eyebrow at the newer detective, before walking out.

"And where do you think you're going?" Lestrade asked, bristling.

"_I _am going back to my lab for research. Too much stupid in the room here. I need a place to think. Unless, of course, you're insinuating I need to stay and listen in to a private police investigation?"

Lestrade narrowed his eyes at Sherlock, who briskly walked out the door and didn't bother taking a cab. He also really needed to check on his experiment on the rate of hair growth on a corpse; that was a previous ongoing investigation, one which was probably botched by now. It had been almost twelve days since he had done any experiments; two weeks ago, he had been dashing around London, gathering clues for Moriarty's _other _crimes.

He also really needed to get back to those, too. It was quite obvious the police department wasn't doing much.

Sherlock strode into the mortuary, easily finding Molly. She was bent over a body, doing a quick post-mortem, but straightened when the detective burst through the doors. _Lighter hair, darker skin- she's recently been on holiday. No new jewelry, so it wasn't a luxury trip; most likely family, to a place too far away to not be raining, but too close to be considered truly foreign. New mascara, new lipstick, she's lost four- no, three pounds since a few weeks ago. Not a diet, though; her hands are steady and she doesn't look tired or too well-rested._

"Sh-Sherlock! What are you doing here?" Molly asked, stepping around the table and wiping her hands on her lab coat.

"I need heads," he declared, glancing down at her. "Bring them to my room. Four of them. Fresh, preferably."

"O-Of course. How's John?" she asked innocently.

Sherlock started, taking a step that seemed to go backwards and forwards simultaneously. He stared at her, unblinking, before turning and walking out. "The heads, Molly!" he called over his shoulder.

Molly found him an hour later, typing away at his laptop with one hand while squeezing a dropper onto something with the other. He didn't even glance up as she opened the doors.

After a moment or two, it was evident Sherlock was immersed in his studies. "Sherlock- I, uhm, brought your heads," she offered, gesturing to the covered cart.

He made a noncommittal noise, surprising Molly- since when did Sherlock make any noise that wasn't a razor-sharp sentence of argument or deduction? She frowned, tilting her head curiously as he waved his hand towards an empty counter on one side of the room. Sighing, Molly wheeled the cart over before turning. She walked over behind him- he was on his website, switching between typing and scribbling down notes with one hand and prodding some sort of metal with the other.

"What are you doing?" She prompted again.

"Measuring the rate and degree of rust on metal with the precipitation of various spots in London."

"Oh, that sounds… interesting." She swayed back on her heels before rolling to her toes. It wasn't like she was infatuated with Sherlock; his off-kilter demeanor today just had her a bit concerned. She'd thought he would have been in the hospital with John, and yet here he was- on an experiment like nothing had happened.

"So how's John?" she tried again, trying to pull a conversation out of him. He shrugged, staring at his work. Molly bit her lip.

"Okay, well. Your heads are over there. Tell me if you need anything." She walked out of the room, receiving no response. She wasn't unused to Sherlock being cold; she was also just used to him being cold and, well… _calculating_. Normally, Sherlock would voice his deductions about her- surely he had noticed the slight highlights in her hair?- but today, there wasn't anything. He had seemed totally closed off to conversation.

Back in his room, Sherlock had barely noticed Molly's presence at all; only his glance towards the cart, almost half an hour later, made him realize she had been in.

His door clicked open again, and Sherlock was about to grumble he hadn't needed anything else when he saw who it was- none other than Sally Donovan.

"What are you doing?" He asked, straightening with a hardened expression flitting onto his face. He shut his laptop and notebook, bracing his hands on the side of the table.

"I could ask the same for you. Normally I wouldn't concern myself with you, freak, but for the past week or so you've been _especially _inhumane," she hissed.

"You're just realizing my abnormalities now?" He raised an eyebrow menacingly.

"_Shut up _for a moment," she bristled, before calming down. "I know you're not exactly... normal, and that you're ever-so-dedicated to your work, but... don't you care at all about Doctor Watson?"

"Oh, and I suppose the _entire _rest of the force is, like you, just consumed with their worry?" Sherlock was now standing motionless across the table. Sally honestly couldn't decide if his eyebrows were raised or narrowed, in way of taunting or showing anger.

"Yes, actually, we're all worried, why do you think Lestrade's letting you just- boss him around without question? He's gotten madder at you in the past week than he probably has in the last year." She waved her hand as if gesturing towards him. "He's so caught up, he probably hasn't even noticed I'm not at the office."

"What are you trying to say?"

"Mind you, it might just be you preoccupying yourself with work, but-"

"Miss Donovan, I don't appreciate the rambling. Get to the point." Sherlock was getting infuriated, anxious, even, with every passing second.

"To me, it seems like you just worked significantly more efficiently without John around," Sally blurted out. Sherlock froze.

"It's been nine days since I've done any crime scene deductions. Why are you on this now?"

"Because you _stopped_, too! It's- it's erratic, Holmes!"

Sherlock exhaled loudly through his nose, glaring at her. She had interrupted his experiment to discuss his _deduction... __**habits**__?_

"I mean," she went on, "you realized there were bombs in the trash cans in the alley, activated by_ rain _nonetheless, not even a full minute after you arrived on scene. You and Lestrade got everyone out and managed to get a hold of significant evidence before they were set off. If John had been there, you would have been voicing your- your deductions," she growled, "sharing a laugh, and walking right by the bins as they blew up in everyone's faces. I know it for a _fact_, Sherlock; in all the years I've worked in the force I don't _once _remember you _ever _figuring something out so fast. Not when you first started working, not when you were doing drugs, definitely not when _John _came into the picture, and even before then, when Myc-"

"Shut up." It was more of a bark than any normal, humane noise, but Sally glared at him and continued.

"That was the fastest I've ever seen you work- and then, and then you just disappear. We've had other cases, you know, in the past ten days. _No one _knows what you're doing. Nobody! You just poured all of your deducing out and then _left_, and I hate to say it, but the department kind of relies on you for a good majority of our bigger cases." She made a face as if the words left a bitter aftertaste in her mouth.

"What I'm saying, freak, is that you need to get over yourself and think of other people. I don't know _what _you're thinking, obsessing over John for a day and then practically _forgetting _about him, but it's got to stop. Yeah, you might miss him, but John slows you down. Even now, you're so worried about him you're no help to anyone. Either go visit him- or don't, I don't really care- but get over it and get back on your feet. Look at you!"

It was silent for a moment. Dead silent, before a growl rumbled deep in Sherlock's throat. God, he might as well been an animal, for all the ruckus he had been making lately.

"Are you suggesting John Watson _hinders my deductions?_"

Sherlock rounded the table, stepping almost nose-to-nose with the policewoman until she hastily stepped back. "Are you _foolishly _assuming John _slows me down_? If I'm ever at a point where I cannot deduce properly, when other people think too loud, when there is _too much stupid in the room_- then I yell at everyone to shut up. I yell at Anderson to turn around. And I've yelled at John to stop thinking. Have you ever realized we've also never been at a crime scene that proffered forthcoming danger? Not once has this force stepped onto a scene that was mere minutes from exploding like it did that day. So don't you _dare," _he raged, "let your _painfully simple mind _assume that my deduction skills are inhibited by my inclination towards _conversation_. I wouldn't put John before deductions. I wouldn't put a person's ability to inflate my ego before my ability of solving a crime scene. I wouldn't put entertainment before _murder_. Miss Donovan, _don't you DARE," _he roared, "think that I would be so foolish as to refuse to prevent the _deaths _of several people simply for a few more seconds of awing an audience with my intellect.

"Furthermore, I'm not being _worrisome _or _foolish _because I'm sitting there like you lot, twiddling my thumbs over a lost cause." Sherlock practically snorted. "I'm not hunched over in some dark alleyway, worried sick about John, nor am I constantly by his bedside like a _mother_. I'm _busy_, working on a huge and twisted case, twisted by none other than Moriarty himself. I can't speak for London's _police_," he spat, "but I've actually made progress on this. The first intelligent criminal London has ever, seen, and-" he let out a strangled laugh- "and you're too worried about some shot doctor, just mucking things up with your _stupid _little brains!"

The detective fell silent. Sally just stared at him.

"So that's it, then."

He glanced up at her, a glint in his eyes.

"I- I get it now." She laughed, half hysterical. "You fooled me. Hell, you've fooled everyone. Fooled us into thinking you might _actually _care about another person. But you don't." She began to shake her head, a disapproving smile on her face. You don't care. About John. No, not at all. '_I wouldn't put John before deductions_.' '_You're too worried about __**some shot doctor**__,_" she mocked, shoving the detective's words in his face. "You can't even put your friend's _life_ before your work as an unpaid, infuriating help in the police force. No, you just dive _right _into the mystery, don't you? You're not figuring this case out- this 'amazing, _intelligent_' case of Moriarty's- for vengeance, for John, for your _friend_," she spat. "No, you're figuring it out for the _chase._ To find and outsmart the one man who's _ever _been an intellectual challenge, aren't you? You emotionless _machine_," she snapped. "It's funny, really, because you'll end up obsessing over this man, this criminal, only to realize his crimes were never about you. The one thing you actually care about and focus on, this _Moriarty_-" she cut off, laughing. "He might just want you out of the way. Like we do, sometimes. You're just a _pest_, an insufferable _pest_. I don't even know why I'm here anymore; it's obvious there's no sense left to knock back into you. Have fun with Moriarty; you two make a _great _pair."

And with that, she stormed out. The door slammed shut behind her, rattling the cases on the wall before it fell silent again.

Sherlock exhaled, clenching and unclenching his fists before walking back over to his lab table.

He appeared interested for a total of two minutes before he sighed loudly and jumped up, briskly walking over to one of the many bookshelves. He started at the top, scanning each book spine as he moved down the rows.

_Nothing, nothing, nothing, nothing, _why _is there __**nothing**__? _Sherlock paced back and forth, thinking, thinking, why couldn't he _think_? He needed his mind cleared. He needed a place to _focus_ on the case. It was eating at him, absolutely tearing at his brain, and he rattled it again- the third time in, what, a while? But it did nothing to cleanse his mind.

It wasn't that he didn't have the thoughts; oh, no. His mind was positively _whirling_, racing, blundering madly through the darkness and he couldn't find a light. He couldn't focus, he couldn't stay on any one thought. His mind was buzzing, shaking like an engine, raring to go with no destination, trying to follow a case without a properly working brain. He was 'frazzled;' it seemed to be the best term. Sherlock felt like a shorted fuse, and it was driving him mad, that he needed to think _so much _right now, at the exact time his brain chose to snap its threshold to bits.

He glanced at the clock; it was 8:45 at night. What? Donovan had seen him at about four. _Four. _What had he spent the better part of five hours even _doing_? He didn't know, and it was worrying. Sherlock _always _knew. Granted, he would prattle on endlessly while thinking and not notice when people _left_- but that was when he was thinking. And when he had someone- something- to keep him grounded.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Oh my god I am _so so so sO _sorry it's been so long, after we got back from Florida I was practically drowning in work to do. So, yes, I apologize for that, and bring you an angry Sherlock and argumentative Donovan. I do have the next couple of chapters already written, too, so that's good- and I'll upload the next one pretty soon. Get ready for an even angrier Lestrade, too (because I apparently can't keep him from getting mad).**

**I'm speculating about writing an angry Mycroft/Epic Holmes Fight scene coming up, with the Holmes brothers at each others' throats a bit, so if you have any comments on that just let me know :)**

**Apologies again for the long wait, and the next chapter will be up _really _soon, I just have to edit over the final parts. Thanks for reading, and comments/critiques/reviews are greatly appreciated!**


	6. The Feeling of Pain

Oh, _God,_ it hurt.

It hurt everywhere. His arms, his legs, his head, his chest, from sharp, stabbing pinpricks to feeling like he had been crushed by a building. He felt extremely light-headed, with a scratchiness in his throat, and it hurt his aching chest to breathe. The last thing he remembered, he was sitting on the couch back in the flat. What had _happened?_

He groaned softly and heard movement next to him.

"Sherlock?"

He managed to open his eyes and look up to see... _Lestrade and Donovan?_

"Oh, god." Donovan choked in a breath and held her hand over her mouth. Lestrade shook his head in disbelief, pocketing his phone.

"Wh- what... where-" he was cut off by a round of coughing, to which Lestrade quickly offered a drink.

"Here, drink this, and don't try to do too much," Lestrade spoke hurriedly. Donovan stood nearby, watching, as he took a long drink.

"How do you feel?" Lestrade asked slowly once he was finished.

He sat back for a moment as he did a mental check-up. "... Terrible," he rasped. Donovan let out a breathless laugh.

"Can you promise us you're not going to do something _stupid _ever again?" Donovan asked. The slight anger in her voice was weakened with the underlying tones of worry and relief. He nodded.

"No, really. _Ever _again," Lestrade warned.

"He found you just- just _lying _there, in the middle of- surrounded by-" Donovan couldn't even form a sentence, and Lestrade sent her a comforting look.

"Wh- where's Sherlock? What happened? Is he okay?"

Donovan stiffened before looking down. Lestrade's relieved look turned into a grimace, and John frowned.

"What's happened?"

"He's _fine_," Donovan snapped sharply. John looked up in concern. "He's _busy. _With the _case_."

"Oh. Well, that's... good. I suppose." He shifted around to try and sit up more, and Lestrade and Donovan quickly helped him up.

"You gave us quite the scare, John," Lestrade started. "You've been out for two weeks. Fourteen days."

"What?" John turned to look at him sharply. "What happened?"

"You were shot." His gave swiveled back to Donovan as she spoke. "You and Holmes were chasing after Moriarty, when-" Donovan broke off again. "Sherlock ended up finding you later on, in an... alley, covered in blood." She looked down, blinking. "It was _horrible_."

"Moriarty's nowhere to be found." Lestrade sent Sally a sympathetic glance before continuing where she left off. "Of course, we were all shaken up for days- still are. God, John, you couldn't have-" Lestrade barked out a laugh and couldn't meet John's eyes. "I- I've seen violence, seen gore, but you were about a drop away from bleeding out, John, literally lying in a _pool _of blood. You were delirious when we found you, coughing it up, it was staining your hands and your shirt- we just- your heart stopped, you know? For fifteen minutes. They declared you dead. I can't-" he shook his head, eyes on the floor.

"We haven't been doing so well since... since then," Sally began again. "Moriarty had some bombs planted when we thought we had a lead- and if Sherlock hadn't been there to find them, London wouldn't have a police force anymore. But that's it. For two weeks, everyone on the Force has been worried sick about you, and Sherlock's been running around London doing god-knows-what. As usual, I guess, but it's more worrisome when we don't have anyone to keep an eye on him."

"So basically, John, don't get shot again or I'll kill you- _after _I kill Sherlock, which _will_ happen," Lestrade butt in, earning a laugh from all three of them for a moment.

"So where is he now?" John asked, when the door suddenly clicked open. He didn't miss the glance Donovan and Lestrade shared as the doctor walked in, just as they didn't miss the disappointment flash across his face.

"Hello, Mister-well, Doctor Watson. I'm Doctor Pond," the man said with a smile. "You gave us all quite the scare," he added with a laugh. "A lot of people worried, you know."

John managed a polite smile. "So I'm aware."

Just then, Anderson walked in, freezing momentarily when he saw John. A smile quickly lit up his face. "Hey, you're alive!"

John awkwardly smiled in return, nodding in agreement. Lestrade, he could understand, but... _Donovan and Anderson_? Since when did they care?

"Mister Watson, if you could just raise your arms for me, one at a time," the doctor went on. John complied, raising his arms and legs and then turning his head and moving his legs and feet. The three policemen didn't move, and it was awkwardly silent for a moment. _Where is Sherlock?_ He wouldn't have made it any less awkward, but a bit more... normal, John guessed. Expected.

The doctor quickly checked his vitals before stepping back. "The machines say you're doing fine. We had to switch them, of course, after they shut down on us the other day."

"Thought you'd died again," Anderson muttered gravely. "We were in a panic."

"If you need anything for now, just use our call button," Doctor Pond continued. "It'll be a while before we release you, though, just to make sure you make a full recovery.

"Thank you," John said as the doctor nodded and left. He turned to the three other people in the room; two of which realized they still had to answer his question.

"Well?"

"He's in his lab- or, he was 30 minutes ago," Lestrade started. Anderson rolled his eyes.

"Of course, 'Sherlock 30 minutes ago' isn't the same as 'Sherlock right now,'" he added. "He didn't leave your side at all for nearly two full days, and then he just up-and-left. It's like he never cared in the first place."

John winced, and Sally elbowed Anderson in the ribs. "Wrong words. What he means, John," she went on briskly, "is that it's a bit... well, erratic. The whole force- mostly us three- has visited every day, just to check up on you- you know, like normal people. Sherlock-" she laughed once- "Sherlock quite literally didn't leave your side and then hasn't been back since. We don't know where he is half the time- the other half, he's burrowing into the police business. I honestly think-"

She was cut off when the door swung open.

"Hello, John," Mycroft said in his pleasantry-conversation voice before turning to the three policemen.

"If you'll excuse us. Terribly sorry."

Lestrade was the first to react, nodding in agreement before passing by John's bed with a wave. "Don't die again," he laughed as he walked out. Next was Donovan, who patted the food of his bed with a smile and offered a "feel better, John." Anderson followed suit with a wave and a surprising (to John, at least), "hope you're better soon, Watson."

"That was dreadful." Mycroft closed the door and turned to face John, who took a deep breath.

"This whole thing is '_dreadful_.' I got _shot_?"

"Two inches from the heart."

John spluttered, at a complete loss for words. "W- _**what**_?"

"You should be dead. Honestly, John, I'm a bit surprised you're not. Sherlock found you almost a full ten minutes later. The ambulance came fifteen minutes after that. You managed to stay alive for half an hour with constant blood loss and a bullet embedded in your chest. You did die, actually, for eight minutes. They declared you dead after seven minutes of being totally unresponsive. Then a coma for two weeks- four days ago, your monitors malfunctioned and told everyone your heart had stopped- and now, here we are."

"That's..." John closed his eyes and leaned back, inhaling deeply. "That's a lot to take in." His chest still ached; he doubted the doctor could give him any painkillers right now, the state he was in.

"Just making sure you had all the facts."

"So what are you doing here?"

"A check-up, Doctor Watson." Mycroft twirled his umbrella in his hands. "What with the faulty machines and having the... chance... to see your decimating injuries, I also do enjoy seeing you alive."

"Where's your brother?"

"At your flat. He left the lab twenty-five minutes ago. He's fine."

John let out a long sigh, rubbing the fabric of the sheets between his fingers.

"The police force does care, you know," Mycroft went on quietly. "Donovan and Lestrade have spent as much time here as they have on Moriarty's case. Anderson, too, along with several other members of the force, and Mrs. Hudson. Your sister called. She was busy, but worried. You're in high demand, John."

_What about Sherlock? _John bit back his response.

"So when can I leave?"

"It will only be a few days. No rush. Now, I have other... impending matters to get to, but I wish you a quick and full recovery, John." And with that, the elder Holmes left the room.

John let out another sigh, glancing around the room. He felt like Sherlock. _Bored!_

John actually had to restrain himself from using the call button to request a syringe full of water to use as target practice against the opposite wall. _You're being childish_, he scolded himself.

_...BORED!_

* * *

_"__**Sherlock Holmes!**__"_

"What _now, _Inspector?" Sherlock growled, rising from his seat in the kitchen. He walked into the living room to find Lestrade's fist punching him right in the face. Sherlock reeled backwards, a hand on his jaw.

"John Watson, after two weeks comatose and fifteen minutes of death, is finally _awake, _and do you know what his first word is?" Lestrade hissed, stomping up to Sherlock and glaring at him. "Do you know? Of course you don't, you weren't _there_."

"What," Sherlock spat, "was it, then?"

"_Sherlock_! It was _Sherlock_, you bloody idiot, a man is shot in the chest and his first word when he wakes up is _your name_! And _you don't __**care**__! _The first five faces he sees are mine, Donovan's, Anderson's, his doctor's, and one of the Holmes brothers, but is it you? Oh, _no!_"

Lestrade stepped back, fists clenched. "His first word is _Sherlock_, his first coherent sentence is '_Where's Sherlock_,' and then '_what happened, is he okay?' _I had to watch disappointment cross over his face _five damn times_, Holmes!"

"And you came here to lecture me on the selflessness of my flatmate? No need," Sherlock growled.

"I came here to shove in your face how much of a bloody _arse _you are and the _**HELPlessness **_of your flatmate! Jesus, Sherlock, you do _care_, don't you?"

"Why does everyone worry so much about whether I _care _or not?!" Sherlock shouted. "Would caring have helped? At all?"

"It sure helped when you found him and tried to stop the bleeding," Lestrade seethed. "The doctors said if it had been any longer, or if you hadn't done anything to help him, you would have found his _corpse _instead." Sherlock flinched. "They said any verbal stimulation could have woken him up by day six. Day _six, _Sherlock. A full week ago!"

"So why didn't it?" Sherlock retorted. "I'm sure our lovely police force tried to make it happen." _And why didn't you tell me before?_

"We did." Lestrade's voice was bitter. "It had to be a voice he could recognize anywhere, that he had a 'strong emotional connection to.'"

It was silent.

"We called his _sister _and nothing happened." Lestrade looked away.

"So what did you do that- that woke him up, then?" Sherlock swallowed, raising his chin.

Lestrade sat on their couch. "You really want to know, Sherlock?"

Sherlock raised an eyebrow.

"I called you. On my cell. One last, final act of desperation, you know? 'Huh, maybe he'll pick up and his voice will wake him up, since he can't be bloody bothered to show up here.'" Lestrade let out a weak laugh. "It went to your voicemail. 'Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. Leave a message.' And he woke up. To your _voicemail_."

Sherlock looked at his shoes.

"Are you ashamed, Sherlock?" Lestrade's voice hardened a bit. "Please, be honest with me. Are you relieved? Ashamed? Happy? Annoyed with me? Couldn't care less? Secretly wish he wouldn't wake up?"

Sherlock suddenly slammed his hand onto the kitchen table with a bang. "Don't even _think _that I don't- don't- that I-"

"Well, Sherlock, I don't really have much else to go on." Lestrade shook his head, gesturing helplessly. "Really, mate."

Sherlock swallowed a lump in his throat, sliding a glance at the Inspector. He didn't say anything, but from the slightly surprised face Lestrade sent him in return, he guessed his eyes gave him away.

"Sherlock, you need to go see him," Lestrade continued quietly. "Really."

"But Moriarty's case-"

"_**DAMMIT**_, Sherlock, I'm not saying it for _you_!" Lestrade shouted, jumping up again and standing nose-to-nose with Sherlock. "I'm _begging _you for _John's _sake!"

"And I know you haven't seen him in- in a while." The Inspector's voice returned to its defeated tone. "And I know it's been difficult. But when John woke up- God, Sherlock- he looked _afraid_. He didn't look relieved, or happy to be alive. He looked worried, and weak, and- and a bit afraid. He _needs _you, and I know you two blokes are too thick to realize it but he _does_! As much as you need him. And you do, too, it shows- badly. Don't kid yourself, Sherlock. You're getting a second chance here. Most people aren't that lucky. Don't waste it."

The Inspector stepped back, glancing at Sherlock's face. "Well. I'm going home now; you should clean up your face before you do anything else." He rubbed his neck awkwardly before backing away, stepping out of the flat.

Sherlock sighed, rubbing his jaw slightly with his eyes locked on the door. Damn, that had hurt.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**Yayyy John's back :) I couldn't keep him away for very long, haha. But no, we can't have Sherlock rushing back to see him- that would be way too simple and wouldn't go with how our favorite detective has been acting so far. So we get Lestrade punching Sherlock and John's 'what-the-hell-is-going-on' point of view, which is great. The Epic Holmes Fight will come in the next chapter, too, don't worry. And, of course, the case will come back! I've been trying to juggle Sherlock's thinking + angst + an entire **_**case **_**and it's gotten a bit difficult, but no worries anymore (I think). It's actually easier to write Sherlock, the case, **_**and **_**John altogether, surprisingly, even though it's an added element. It runs more smoothly.**

**And yes. Donovan and Anderson. 'Whaaat? Them? Nice? _Whaaaat_?'**

**I feel like Donovan and Anderson are kind of under-appreciated characters, in a way (as in, they have too much potential for me to write them off as 'those two annoying cops'). Yes, Sherlock (and therefore John) hates them, and they **_**are **_**rude, annoying, etc. to him, but I realized while I was writing- they hate **_**Sherlock**_**, not John. If the two detectives met John on another case- say, they needed a doctor to help an almost-murder-victim or something- they'd probably end up liking each other, wouldn't they? Two average/good policemen and a good doctor, all three sassy, everyday, mundane-yet-extraordinary people- I mean, Greg and John have kind of an easy, grudging friendship, right? So why not all four of them? I consider Lestrade to have a friendship with Donovan/Anderson (the beginning of **_**ASiP **_**shows Lestrade and Anderson being interviewed **_**together**_**), so they're kind of the police trio there. Donovan, as mean as she is to Sherlock, would actually care about John if he was victim to a case Sherlock and the force hadn't yet solved. She'd pity John because Sherlock wasn't there and would end up going to the hospital (dragging Anderson along, of course), and would realize 'Hey, John's not that bad of a bloke,' yknow? And Anderson would realize it too (more along the lines of 'hey, John's got to put up with him, even more than the rest of us. Poor guy. He's actually not that terrible.') and they'd be nicer to him.**

**Anyways. Sorry for rambling- I could literally go on for hours on the under-usage of Sally's character, who in my mind has really dynamic potential, but I won't. Just realize I'm not always going to write her from a depreciating, Sherlockian point of view, and it might transition over to a more 'Watsonesque' appreciation sort of thing. Sally's cool with John.**

**But yes. Thanks for reading! That's all for now, the next chapter will be up asap. Comments/critiques/reviews are greatly appreciated :) **


	7. Looking Back

"And then he went, 'Maybe if you weren't so distracted by the state of her nails, you could have spent more time on escaping,'" Anderson snickered.

"And then, _bam! _Right in the nose! Sherlock never saw it coming- and neither did the policemen, who had been holding the guy back," Donovan added.

John was near tears of laughter in his hospital bed. This time- thanks to Mycroft- he was no longer in a hospital gown, but a comfy white t-shirt and grey sweatpants. Donovan, Anderson, and Lestrade (along with the elder Holmes) had been visiting nearly every day, bringing him food and telling stories- especially funny ones of Sherlock, in his early years of helping the police force.

"I mean," Lestrade tried to go on, gasping for air, "we all knew he was going to get punched _some _time."

"We just wanted to do it ourselves!" Anderson cut in, making them all laugh. Even Mycroft allowed a somewhat-pained-looking smile on his face.

"That's not the only time Sherlock's been punched, though," he added as he straightened his tie.

"Oh, I know it's not," John added, with a tone to his voice that made the three policemen turn to him.

"What do you mean?" Lestrade asked.

"Oh, don't tell me _you_'ve had the honors?!" Donovan crossed her arms in mock anger.

"It comes with the upgrade from _nuisance _to _flatmate_," John replied, sticking his nose in the air pompously and earning a laugh.

"No, but really. How did you punch him?" Anderson prodded.

"Well." John shifted slowly in the bed to a more comfortable position. "We were- well, Sherlock was trying to build a disguise for a case. You all know of the... _Dominatrix _woman, right? Irene Adler?"

"Oh, god. I can already tell this is a good one." Lestrade chuckled, and John grinned with a nod of agreement.

"So we're standing a few blocks away from her house, and suddenly he turns around and goes 'John, punch me in the face."

"He _asked _you to?!" Donovan gasped.

"Yeah, he did. I didn't believe him at first. '_Punch _you?' I had asked, as in, 'are you insane?' Obviously, the answer is yes, but- it was hard to believe," John went on with a laugh. "And he goes, 'Yes. Punch me. In the face. Didn't you hear me?' And I go- oh, my god- I said, 'I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking, but it's usually subtext.'"

He was cut off from the uproar of laughter from the three policemen. He cast a glance over at Mycroft- the all-seeing Holmes probably had watched this happen, anyways. He was chuckling softly, too, staring at John.

"And then- and _then_-" John held his hand up as the laughter died down. "And then he punched _me_!"

"He didn't!" Lestrade gaped at him from his seat in the hospital chair.

"He did! So, of course, I punched him back. Sent him to the ground. I was pretty proud of that," he added with a laugh. "And then I tackled him. And he was all, 'but John! You were a _doctor _in the Army!' And I yelled back, '_I had bad days_!'"

Anderson was holding onto the bed for support, he was laughing so hard. Donovan practically had tears streaming down her face, one hand on Anderson's back as he tried to stand upright. Lestrade was about to fall out of his chair he was laughing so hard. Even Mycroft was smiling slightly, but he had a strange look in his eyes. John tilted his head, questioning.

"God, you're a lucky one," Anderson went on. "I'd give anything to just walk up and hook him, right in the nose."

Lestrade looked away momentarily- Mycroft noticed, but John didn't as he shrugged.

"That's actually the only time I've ever been mad enough to punch him. Don't get me wrong- he's completely bonkers- but... I dunno. I've gotten used to it, I guess."

"But what about his... _experiments?_" Donovan wrinkled her nose. "I found _human eyes in his microwave_, remember? That can't be pleasant."

"Trust me, it's not. I've opened the fridge to see a human head staring back at me." John shuddered. "The flat's always a mess- as you've seen- but it's tolerable, once you get used to it. He's got a complete lack of regard for furniture- walks all over the coffee table, does his experiments in the kitchen, _shoots holes _in the wall-"

"Oh, you're _kidding_!" Lestrade cried.

"I wish I was," John sighed. "But- I mean..." he trailed off slowly. How do you explain to three people who hate a man '_Oh, hey, he might ruin your job, but he's not that bad'_?

"It's... It's like taking care of a child, I guess." John laughed. "One that's not yours. A bit like babysitting, _Mycroft_." He pointed a fake glare towards the man, who shrugged as the other three laughed. "At first, you try to constantly clean up after them, apologize for their behavior in public- it's a bit daunting. But then you get used to the mess. As in, 'what's the use, he'll mess it up tomorrow, too,' y'know? I haven't yet stopped apologizing for his behavior- but now it's more of a glance of '_yes, he's always like this, sorry, get used to it' _than a full-blown apology on his behalf. But he's- he's gotten better. With the flat, I guess. There aren't body parts in the _microwave _anymore, there's always clean, uncontaminated teacups, there are spots cleared to eat at the table, paths through the living room..."

Donovan raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock? Making things easier? I didn't realize he was so... _fond _of you." She said the word like it left a strange aftertaste in her mouth.

"I can't tell if he's just hard-wired to eventually get used to people, or... or what." John looked down, slightly confused himself.

"Contrary to popular belief," Mycroft spoke up, "my brother is not totally emotionless." Anderson scoffed, but it was half-hearted. "A bit daft, yes. Cold-hearted? No, not really."

"Completely insane? Yes," Lestrade muttered, and the policemen and John laughed again. Mycroft managed an unpleasant smile before standing.

"Well, I must be off. You're improving, John. I'll see you tomorrow." And with that, he left, the door shutting with a _bang_.

"God. He kind of creeps me out, you know?" Anderson shuddered. "I'm glad Sherlock at least shows... I dunno, some sort of pompous emotion, I guess."

"Mycroft offered me money to spy on Sherlock when I first moved in."

"_What_?!" Donovan shot him a look of total disbelief, to which John chuckled, nodded, and launched into another story.

* * *

"The return of the doctor seems to be doing you incredibly well, brother."

Sherlock groaned, tossing the letter onto the coffee table as he stood to glance over his brother. _Clean shoes, everyday suit, smells like antiseptic. _"Why do you say that, _brother_?"

"I said it sarcastically. Because you look... unwell."

"Quite the intelligent vocabulary you've got there," he snapped back, straightening his shirt.

"Mmm. Sunk down to insulting vocabulary, I see."

"Oh, for God's sakes-"

"Why are you so irritable?"

"Because I can't _think_!" Sherlock growled, scratching his scalp and beginning to pace. "I can't retreat into my Mind Palace. I don't know why. And no, it's not 'locked,' don't go off on _that _again. It's not childish. It helps me to _think_."

"Well, apparently it's not doing its job now," Mycroft retorted. "Civilians are at a loss, the police are at a loss- _you _cannot afford to be in this stalemate!"

"Since when did I become London's last hope in finding Moriarty?" Sherlock growled, whirling around. Mycroft narrowed his eyes.

"_Anyways_." Sherlock went on, not allowing for a reply. "I've tried other ways of working, too."

"I can tell."

"Of course you can. This is a thr-"

"Don't tell me it's a 'three-patch' problem when your arm is littered with marks. More than _three_, anyways. What would John say if he saw you now? The flat's littered with trash and empty syringes and useless patches and useless '_experiments_' that you're doing just for the monotony. For God's sakes, Sherlock, I can't afford to have _you _holed up in a hospital, too," Mycroft retorted, raising his voice.

"You make it sound so _tedious_!" Sherlock yelled. "This is _Moriarty_ we're talking about!"

"No, it's not! We are having a conversation about _you _here, the only topic you're ever actually interested in, don't try and talk about the case. And don't think about it, either, I know you." Mycroft pointed his umbrella at his brother, who swatted it away.

"The _case _is more important," Sherlock grumbled as Mycroft sat down on the couch.

"More important than John?"

Sherlock winced before bristling. "Stop that! You of all people-! You _told _me caring was a disadvantage, why do you _want _me to all of a sudden? How... _out of character _of you."

"I did say that to you." Mycroft twirled his umbrella. "I also know it went right over your head. You're rather immature, brother, you _do _care, unconsciously. And, believe it or not, _I _care about your well-being. Which is closely tied to Doctor Watson's, in turn. So you can _stop_," Mycroft suddenly hissed, "with the sniveling on about the _case _when you know that's not _really _why you're so preoccupied."

"I am not _preoccupied_!" Sherlock shouted, glaring at his brother.

"Don't _lie _to me, Sherlock Holmes!"

The room went silent. Sherlock narrowed his eyes even further at his brother before slowly relaxing. He paced back and forth before flopping down into a chair with a sigh.

"Mycroft, I'm wasting away," he moaned into his hands, covering his face.

"Don't."

Sherlock glanced up, one eyebrow raised. "Don't?"

"Don't get childish on me, Sherlock. You're an adult, you're intelligent, and I'm not a therapist, nor a doctor."

Sherlock narrowed his eyes. "I most certainly was _not _about to do so."

"That is _exactly _what you were about to do."

"Stop treating me like a whining, invalid child!"

"Well, stop _acting_ like one!" Mycroft stood up, stepping back before glaring at his brother. "You're a _mess_. John's a mess. All he does is talk about you with Lestrade and Donovan and Anderson. They're becoming his _friends_, obviously much to your distaste, because he does nothing but prattle on all day about you- they swap stories, he asks about you, about the case, about _every_thing. He's improving, _barely_. He acts as though he has nothing to look forward to. It's actually quite sad to watch his state slowly improve and drastically decline all at once. You need to do something, Sherlock."

"I- I can't go see him." Sherlock hung his head. "Not without solving something- _anything_. I'll feel like I've done nothing all this time."

Mycroft raised an eyebrow. "Sherlock?"

"Mycroft."

"Do you feel _guilty _about what happened?"

Sherlock glanced up at his brother helplessly after a moment.

"If I hadn't been so- so _intent _on catching Moriarty- and I didn't even do that... If I had turned back to look- John's always one and a half meters behind me, give or take- if I had looked back..." he rubbed his head again. "I didn't even notice he wasn't _there _until I heard the gunshot. Then I turned to look, and- and John was gone, and then I turned to look back to Moriarty, but _he _was gone, and- and then-"

"And then you went looking for _John_, because you _care_. Sherlock, you're quite ignorant for someone so brilliant."

"Resorting to compliments, now?"

"Go see your doctor, brother."

"Not without something."

"Then find something. And then _go see your doctor_." The door shut with a _thud_, and Mycroft was gone.

Sherlock sat still for a moment before sighing and glancing over the letter again- Moriarty's, that was.

"_Oh, but I hope he's doing well, actually. I would hate for either of you to be... eliminated from this game before it was over. I've decided it's a game of chess. The reasoning is simple- chess has pawns. A king can move his pawns however he likes. As slowly or as quickly or as clearly or as messily as you want, people can be guided to a certain conclusion, to a certain square on the board, without ever knowing you made that decision for them. From a crystal-clear, impeccable, flawless precision of deception to a smudged, erased, muddied, littered mess of confusion... Oh, yes, it is marvelously easy to move, to sway, to...sacrifice a pawn."_

He sat back, rubbing his eyes. Was Mycroft right? He didn't care. He cared about John. Yes, that was true. Did he? Was it?

_"You machine."_

_"No one can compete with my MASSIVE INTELLECT!"_

_"I will burn the __**heart **__out of you."_

_"Didn't see this coming, did you?"_

_"I don't have friends."_

_What are you willing to sacrifice, in order to kill a King?_

"_His first word when he wakes up is __**your name**__!"_

_"You don't care. About John."_

_"I always hear 'punch me in the face' when you're speaking."_

_"I want someone I trust."_

_What are you willing to sacrifice?_

_"can't even put your friend's __**life**__ before your work-"_

_I've decided it's a game of chess._

_"Not good?" "Bit not good, yeah."_

_"I'll burn you."_

_"I don't have __**friends**__."_

_"Stop it! You can't giggle at a crime scene."_

_It is marvelously easy..._

_"You've come the closest. Now you're in my __**way**__."_

_"Just so I know, do you care about that at all?"_

_"Caring is not an advantage, Sherlock."_

_"That's what people __**DO!**__"_

_"On the count of three, shoot Doctor Watson."_

_"SHERLOCK!"_

_"Sentiment is a chemical defect found in the losing side."_

"_Jesus, Sherlock, you do __**care**__, don't you?"_

_"Are you all right? ARE YOU ALL RIGHT?!"_

_"Yes, of course I'm alright."_

_"But then, people get so sentimental to their pets-"_

_People can be guided to a certain conclusion..._

_"'M fine- it's okay, it's-"_

_"Then I'll continue not to make that mistake."_

_"And you find that easy, do you?"_

_"You __**machine**__!"_

_Moriarty wouldn't ever say something without a double meaning. Pawns, chess game- that's a riddle, no doubt. He gave me this message the day we captured his henchman... it was also the day we were reviewing the tapes, to see where he had gone... "smudged, erased, littered mess of confusion-" now, this letter is impeccably written. No smudges, no erase marks, even though it's written in pencil, and it isn't sloppy. I've read it quickly and slowly and aloud and I haven't figured anything out about it... what else could there be? It was 'marvelously easy.' What's easy to manipulate? Well, other than people, obviously. What could be edited, erased, read differently that's relevant to the-_

"THE TAPES!" Sherlock yelled as he scrambled to his feet, grabbing his coat and scarf as he thundered down the steps and burst out the door. He practically jumped through the window into a cab, barking out "police department, as fast as you can, _now_" as he slammed the door shut.

As soon as the cab was slowing to a stop, Sherlock threw the man some money and dashed out the door, crashing into it and throwing it open. Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson were just a few meters in front of him, and whirled around in shock.

"Sherlock-!" Lestrade began, but he was cut off.

"Lestrade! The _tapes_! Where are the tapes? I need to watch them. Where are they?"

"Jesus, calm _down_," Donovan snapped. "They're in the video room. Why-"

Sherlock sprinted off towards the room, coattails flailing after him like a cape. The three policemen turned to each other and gave a collective sigh.

"We might as well go after him," Anderson muttered, turning. "So he doesn't accidentally blow up the building."

Lestrade and Donovan nodded in agreement- a small smile on Donovan's face at the thought, for some reason- before they turned and followed after the consulting detective.

When they reached the room, they found that- somehow- Sherlock had dragged poor Agent Eastlake into the room with him. She was uploading the videos, and sent Lestrade a helpless look as they walked in. He waved his hand in a gesture of _it's fine_, while Sherlock bounced on his heels impatiently.

"Go to right before the video skipped," he ordered as soon as it had uploaded. She did so, and Sherlock and John came up onto the screen, chasing after Moriarty. Seconds later, Sherlock and John jumped several meters ahead, accompanied by the black smudges.

"Stop!" Sherlock yelled. "Now rewind to right before the skip."

"These blasted cameras…" Anderson muttered, shaking his head.

Eastlake rewound the tapes to seconds before the change, glancing at Sherlock.

"Can you play it slower?" he asked, turning to her.

"How slow? I can do just a slower version, or frame-by-frame-"

"Frame by frame," he interrupted, turning back to the screen. She did so, and they watched Sherlock and John as they (painfully) slowly ran up to the spot before they disappeared. The black smudges came on screen, and Donovan groaned momentarily before Sherlock raised his hands. The frame-by-frame seemed to speed up, so that it was almost playing in normal time.

"Stop! _Watch!" _He pointed to the screen as the 'black smudges' took a rather humanoid shape and- _tackled _John to the ground. Another one quickly came out of the shadows and chased after Sherlock as the first two dragged John, who was struggling like a madman, back the way he had come.

Lestrade swore loudly while Sherlock slammed his hands onto the computer desk. Donovan was staring openmouthed in shock before turning to Sherlock.

"And you didn't _notice_?!" She screeched. "You didn't _notice _that John was _tackled _and dragged down the alley?!"

"Sally!" Anderson hissed, pulling her back, but Sherlock whirled around.

"No, I didn't _notice! _That was when Moriarty turned over the trash cans, look- rewind it." Sherlock pointed back to the screen as it rewound. They focused on Sherlock and Moriarty instead, just as they saw Jim push over some trash cans. As he did so, he tripped.

"I remember that," Sherlock growled. "Stupid- if he hadn't sent them _behind _himself I wouldn't have tripped, either."

Surely enough, one of the cans crashed into Sherlock, who stumbled and fell hands-first onto the alleyway.

"Oh my g-"

As Sherlock fell, Moriarty knocked over another can and 'tripped' over it. As he did, another 'black smudge' came up, taking the humanoid shape again, and crawled out of the trash can before breaking into a run. The first man- Moriarty- rolled to the side, behind the cans, and was hidden in the shadows as Sherlock dashed by again, followed by John. The video immediately slowed down again to the normal-time's frame by frame play.

"Jesus C—how did we not _notice _that?" Lestrade yelled, pulling at his hair in frustration.

"Can you zoom in on the faces?" Sherlock asked, silently fuming.

Darcy nodded, clicking away at the computer. The video paused, and she zoomed in on the face of "Moriarty." Sherlock narrowed his eyes as it loaded, and when it came up, the three policemen gasped in shock. Sherlock clenched his fists.

The face, instead of Moriarty's, was now the face of the man they were currently still holding in the interrogation room. The nameless sniper. Definitely _not _who Sherlock had been chasing.

"What about not-John's face?" he asked, whirling around.

Darcy pressed some more buttons before shaking her head. "I don't get a clear shot at it."

"Well, try, please," Lestrade asked. "Now we can arrest this man for being an accessory after the fact, at least."

Sherlock ran for the door, throwing it open and briskly walking down the hall.

"Sherlock, where are you _going_?" Donovan yelled after him.

"To tell John," he yelled back over his shoulder. The three policemen exchanged a worried glance and began to chase after him.

"Sherlock, don't! We just left there," Lestrade went on. "He's-"

"He's what?" Sherlock abruptly came to a halt and turned around, eyes wide. "What?"

"He's probably asleep right now," Anderson panted as he walked up. "We visited a couple of hours ago, then had a lunch break. He was exhausted- his doctor insisted he get some sleep."

"The only doctor's orders I listen to are John's," Sherlock replied, and Lestrade couldn't help but smile helplessly.

"Sherlock, I would let you go see him, but he's wiped out, mate. He looked awful."

"All the more reason to go pay him a visit." Sherlock yanked his shoulder out of Lestrade's grasp and dashed out the building doors, hailing a cab. Donovan let out a loud sigh.

"He missed him, didn't he," she mumbled. Lestrade nodded slowly.

"I mean, I knew he did," she went on. "You just-"

"You can't really… _tell_, with Sherlock," Anderson cut in.

The three of them stood there for a moment, staring at the doors, looking rather comical.

"You know, I could have punched him _right there_," Anderson suddenly yelled in frustration. Lestrade and Donovan turned to stare at him before they burst into laughter. They headed up the elevator into the office, Donovan immediately being carried off by Bristow, a thick file in her hands. Lestrade's radio beeped, and he picked it up to answer.

"Inspector Lestrade."

"Sir, there's been a disturbance on King Edward's and Angel Street…"

Meanwhile, Sherlock used his usual throw-money-at-the-cabbie-while-jumping-out-of-the -car sketch and darted into St. Bart's, impatiently wading through the crowd of people towards the elevator. He was a few steps away when the intercom crackled to life.

"_Patient John Watson_," it began. Sherlock froze. It took him barely a second to switch his path towards the stairwell- it would be quicker, anyways- as he broke into a sprint.

"_John H. Watson. So good to see you, Sherlock Holmes. I've been waiting for you. So good, indeed, to see someone back from the dead, isn't it?"_

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**I totally warned you guys there would be cliffhangers. Three guesses, and the first two don't count. And, yes, that first bit was for all of the Big Bang Theory fans out there, and if you caught that reference, congratulations :)**

**So, yes. I had written Sherlock's little mind-flashback thing a couple of chapters back, actually, and I was glad to use it. Not exactly a mind-palace or amazing-deduction equivalent just yet, but there you go. Sherlock solved the mini-case yay, four for you Sherlock, you go Sherlock (sorry). And, again, a bit more of my ideas for Donovan and Anderson. With John talking nonstop about the guy, they can't help but get a little more used to his antics, and grateful they don't have to put up with him even at home. They're more endearing, even though they partially can't stand him. Donovan's beginning to care more because, well, it's easier for me to make _her _do stuff, with Anderson trailing behind. I feel like that's how their relationship is, honestly. (and that concludes this episode of _Going Way Too Deep on Minor Characters!_)**

**You'll also be glad to hear the next chapter is more than halfway done and is full of suspense and action and a bunch of stuff. It's great you guys. I'm prrretty excited.**

**As much as I need to get John _out _of the hospital (for sake of time progression and the story as a whole _and_ for this cliffhanger/next chapter), it's actually kind of fun to imagine him sitting in the hospital bed, swapping stories and sharing laughs with Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson (and sort-of Mycroft). I like writing humor scenes into stories, too, and I hope you guys enjoyed that.**

**So, yes. I hope you enjoyed the longer chapter, because I couldn't split it in any way so I just put it all together for you guys. The next chapter will be up soon and wOW OH MY GOD YOU GUYS this has almost 40 reviews and 50 follows and _2,800 views_ and you have _no idea _how unbelievably amazing that is it's so exciting. Geez.**

**Anyways. Enough of that. Thanks for reading, and comments/critiques/reviews are greatly appreciated :)**


	8. A Cause for Alarm

John opened his eyes with a feeling in his gut that told him he wasn't alone.

He glanced around nervously, anticipating a doctor with more morphine. He didn't see anything, though, and straightened up to see the door slamming shut with a loud, echoing _bang_ and a _click_.

The room was eerily silent, spare two thrumming, beeping monitors on his side. John glanced over at the readings- _normal, that's good. Better than flatlining, I guess. _He shifted around, once again thanking Mycroft for the comfy white t-shirt and pajama pants he insisted the doctors let him wear. John wasn't about to stoop down to a humiliating hospital gown just yet.

He heard the shuddering rumble of the A/C and subconsciously pulled the covers a bit closer into his sides. It was beginning to get cold in the room almost as soon as the rumbling stopped, and the steady stream of air came through.

_BORED!_

_Honestly, if this is what Sherlock feels like all the time, I might actually ask Moriarty to make a case myself. I'm about to explode from boredom, _John thought, purposely avoiding the term 'die,' even in his thoughts. The idea of himself ceasing to, well, _exist _was a bit too much for him to wrap his brain around. Not yet, anyways.

Another shuddering rumble came from the A/C, which then abruptly stopped. The room was silent, spare the steady beeping of the monitors. _Beep. Beep. Beep_. John wanted to throw them out the window to the side, and was seriously considering it before the speakers crackled to life. The hospital had a speaker system?

"_Patient John Watson," _the voice- a man's- began. "_John H. Watson... So good, indeed, to see someone back from the dead, isn't it?"_

_Beep. Beep. Beep beep beep. _

_"I should think it is. I do apologize if it gets a bit rough in that room, or cold, or anything- this building is hardly very reliable when it comes to such menial things like structure."_

_Beep beep beep beep-_

_"Do realize that this will not be quick and painless. It may not even result in death, though. I honestly can't tell what will happen. It is simply a sacrificial play. And I'm willing to sacrifice, Patient John Watson."_

_Beep beep beep beepbeepbeepbeepbeepbeep_-

The voice laughed before the speakers abruptly shut off, followed by a low rumble. John sat up in his hospital bed, his heart monitor beeping erratically. Gritting his teeth, John placed his hand over the I.V. and was about to take them out himself when he heard a knock on the door.

He turned to see the face of Jim Moriarty staring back at him, baring his teeth in a grin as he waved.

John's heart jolted in terror as the building crumbled again. He noticed a few bits of dust shifting through the air from the corners of the room. The shrill beeping of the heart monitor wasn't helping his panicky thoughts, so he ripped out the I.V. drips and began to throw his covers back with a gut-wrenching pain tore through his lungs.

He immediately sat back with a groan, clawing at his chest. _Two inches from the heart_, Mycroft had said. Two inches.

After a while, the pain subsided- John sat up much more carefully, noticing even more dust coming from the ceiling. Suddenly, with a loud crunching noise, the entire room shifted, and John was jolted a bit to the side. He quickly braced himself with his arms, glancing around wildly before deciding to try his luck at making it to the door.

The bed rattled around on its wheels as he stood, one hand still on the mattress- suddenly, the room shuddered again, and John staggered over to the window, clutching at the sill with one hand while the other was over his heart as he tried to control his breathing.

He suddenly heard a pounding at the door again and whirled around, expecting Moriarty.

"_JOHN!"_

"Sh_- Sherlock?_"

No, it wasn't Moriarty- it was Sherlock, banging on the glass and tugging at the handle like a madman. The door, it seemed, wouldn't budge.

"_JOHN!"_

Sherlock, noticing he had John's attention, pounded on the door again- almost to the rhythm of his heart. _Thump thump thump thumpthumpthump._ John coughed, struggling to keep his heart in his chest as he straightened. The building creaked and groaned, and he was- again- tossed to the side. Thankfully, he was close to one wall- he stumbled into it, bracing himself with his shoulder, and glanced up at Sherlock, terrified. The detective jumped up and seemingly kicked the door before resuming his banging on the glass, bright blue eyes wide and gaping at the doctor locked inside.

"_**JOHN**_! _JOHN, THE DOOR'S LOCKED!_ _COME OVER HERE!_"

Of course, why would Sherlock understand the phrase '_I almost got shot in the heart, you can't expect me to perform amazing feats of fitness right away?'_

"I'm trying," he rasped back, trying for all the world to make himself as loud as possible and make himself move as fast as possible all the while not collapsing from exhaustion. God, had he been starved for the last two weeks? He staggered a few more steps forward as the building shook again.

Sherlock yanked on the door handle every few seconds, his eyes still trained on John through the window until he finally reached it. The doctor's hands shook wildly as he placed one on the window and the other on the handle to steady himself.

"_John, can you open it?_" Sherlock yelled, struggling against the handle again. John gasped for breath but tried pushing down on the handle- it refused to give way. He glanced around for a lock on the side, but there wasn't one. He shook his head worriedly at Sherlock.

The detective swore, stepping back and running his hands through his hair. The building rumbled again, and he barely managed to keep himself standing- John held onto the door handle as if it were a lifeline. _Thumpthumpthumpthump._

Sherlock resumed kicking at the door, trying to bust in. John glanced around the room for anything that would help.

"_John! The window!" _Sherlock gestured wildly behind John towards the room's one window. "_Check the window!"_

"Sherlock, I- I can't," John wheezed, half hunched over.

"_Yes, you can, John,_"Sherlock retorted.

"N- no, Sherlock, I _can't_," he cried with desperation laced in his tone. "I'm not-" the building shook again, nearly crashing him to the floor- "not exactly... strong enough to walk all the way over there."

Sherlock's eyes widened fractionally before glancing at the door. "We'll, there's got to be-"

There was suddenly a loud groaning noise, and the entire hospital pitched to the side. Sherlock and John gripped onto the door handles for dear life, trying to stay standing. John felt his head spinning a bit, and shook it before realizing something. It was also the moment he heard a loud _clang_, and looked up in horror to see his door handle had simply snapped off.

"Sherlock, your gun!" He croaked, pointing at Sherlock's coat.

"_My what?"_ More dust fell on either side, coating their hair and making Sherlock's turn a mousey grey.

"Your _GUN_!" John braced himself on the angled wall with one hand while making a shooting gesture with the other. "Shoot the glass, it'll break!"

Sherlock nodded in realization before pulling out his gun and pressing his barrel to the glass. He glanced down it at John, who was staring expectantly.

"Well? What are you waiting for?" John demanded shrilly.

"Move out of the way," Sherlock barked hoarsely. John took a step to the side just as the hospital lurched again. He barely managed to hold himself up while Sherlock was pitched backwards, his gun skittering down the hall as he scrabbled for a hold on the tile floor.

"_Hey!"_

John heard a muffled shout that wasn't Sherlock's from outside the hall. He tried to peer through the window for a better look and saw several men dressed in all black racing down the hall.

"_Sir, you need to get out of here,_" one of them barked at Sherlock. He shook his head fiercely, pointing to John on the other side of the window.

"_I'm not leaving," _John heard Sherlock growl. "_He's stuck in there._"

"_Sir, we'll try to help him as best we can, but you need to leave __**right now **__before this building collapses on _both _of you_," the other man replied. "_We don't have time to waste arguing_."

"_I can survive a building fall,_" Sherlock replied harshly. "_I'm _not _leaving_."

"_Sherlock." _John pounded on the glass, grabbing everyone's attention. He managed a weak smile at Sherlock, his hand still on the window.

"It's okay. Get out of here, and I'll catch up later. It'll be fine, yeah?" His somewhat convincing tone wasn't helped by his cough at the end, but he kept his eyes on Sherlock, who refused to budge. Another groan came, this time from the floor of the room, and John's heart jumped into his throat._ Thump thump thump._

"_No! I'm not leaving again,_" Sherlock growled, walking up to the glass and placing his hand opposite John's. "_You- you know you said almost exactly that two weeks ago, right?"_

"_Guys, take him out, we'll start on the door," _a voice called from behind Sherlock, who stiffened.

"_No, I'm staying. No-! STOP!"_

A few of the men had grabbed Sherlock and were dragging him away as he thrashed wildly in protest. "_JOHN_!" He roared, trying to push past the two men. John watched from the window as the other three began working at unlocking the door. A crash sounded from behind him- John whirled around in horror as a slab of the ceiling fell onto the heart monitors. _Thump. Thump. Thump._

"_JOHN! Let- me- go!"_

Sherlock struggled against the holds of the two men, who refused to budge as they practically dragged him down the hall and through the stairwell. Sherlock was screaming the whole way until they pitched him backwards out onto the pavement. He stumbled before regaining his balance just as a hand grabbed his arm.

"Sherlock! What's going on?!" He whirled around to see Lestrade, glancing up at him with wide eyes.

"I- John- hospital- building-"

Moriarty's chilling words rang in his head over the intercom: "_It is simply a sacrificial play. And I'm willing to sacrifice Patient John Watson."_

"All right, hey, take a deep breath." Lestrade patted Sherlock's back as he bent over, gulping in lungfuls of air. The hospital let out another groan as the building began to crumble. Several people were in a panic, rushing out of the doors and onto the street. Lestrade began to pull Sherlock backwards, who refused.

"No," he choked. "No." He straightened, glancing down at Lestrade and jerking his arm away. "John's still inside. Third floor. His door-" he broke off, starting back towards the hospital. "I have to go get him!"

"_Sherlock_!" Lestrade grabbed him and yanked him backwards. "Sherlock, I can't let you go in there. The building's _falling apart_!"

"But _John's inside_!" He yelled back, trying to push himself away. Lestrade shook his head and dragged the consulting detective backwards, away from St. Bart's. The building groaned again, throwing up more dust, and the two watched in horror as a section of the corner simply fell off of the building. The heap of bricks landed with a crash on the pavement, sending the scared crowd into an outright panic.

"_Lestrade_!" Sherlock heard Donovan yell as two sets of footsteps came rushing up to them. He turned to glare at Donovan and Anderson, who were gaping up at the crumbling building. "What's going on?!" she went on, horrified. "We were just-"

She was cut off as the building gave another groan, and another section of the top floor crumpled to the ground. The four of them scrambled backwards instinctively- but through the dust, inside the falling hospital, Sherlock caught a sight of blonde hair.

"Wait-! John!" Lestrade and Anderson both had to hold one of Sherlock's arms as he threw himself forward.

"Sherlock, _wait_, no!" Lestrade yelled, yanking him back by the collar. A section of the roof fell off again, landing a few meters in front of the entrance. The entire street seemed to shake, then, as the pillars holding up the first floor began to crack.

The three policemen and consulting detective watched in horror as the first floor of St. Bart's Hospital was crushed right in front of them.

"_JOHN!_" Sherlock yelled, coughing as dust billowed up several feet into the air. The crowd, which a moment ago was in chaos, simmered down to a mute shock as the dust settled. The foursome froze, Lestrade's grip tightening unconsciously on the scruff of Sherlock's jacket.

Sherlock suddenly yanked himself forward. Lestrade let go hesitantly before he and the other two policemen raced after him. Sherlock dashed around the section of the room, glancing around wildly, chest heaving.

"Sherlock-"

"Where is he?" he asked, whirling around to look at the three policemen. "I- I just saw him. Where-" he broke off again, turning in circles like a lost dog, scampering towards a pile of bricks and half-heartedly tossing them aside.

"_Where's John_?" He cried, his voice breaking. "Lestrade. Help me find him."

Lestrade, Donovan, and Anderson stood staring at Sherlock before slowly moving towards where the entrance of the hospital had been. Sherlock trodded forward, occassionally shifting bricks and mortar out of his way as he moved towards the crumbling building.

As he moved another pile out of his path, dust and dirt flew up into his nose, making him cough. Sherlock waved it away absently, surveying the rubble again. His ears practically pricked up as he heard another cough, and turned to the three policemen questioningly.

"Did you hear that?" he asked Sally, who was standing closest. She started before glancing over, raising an eyebrow.

"Hear what?" she asked. Sherlock raised his hand, waiting, until he heard the cough again. Donovan had heard, too- she dashed over and Sherlock practically leaped into the mound of debris. He tore into yanking away the bricks while Donovan skirted around to the other side, making Sherlock freeze with a sudden shriek.

He and the other two policemen raced over to where she was standing, just as one of the men in black shoved a bit of a ruined stone column away and dragged himself up. He reached down into where he had been buried and all-too-slowly pulled out John Watson- covered in dust, nearly hyperventilating and clutching at his chest, but _alive_.

Sherlock choked on air as he rushed forward, crouching down in front of John so that as the doctor double over, he was eye-to-eye with him. "Are you all right?" Sherlock demanded, his hands outstretched but untouching as if he wanted to help, but was afraid John might shatter if he touched him.

"_Are you all right_?" He demanded again. The man in black kept one hand on John's shoulder as he gasped for breath. Sherlock caught John's eye and held his gaze, silently willing him to slow his heart rate as well as his own.

"Ye-" John coughed and spluttered momentarily before shakily straightening as he stood. His shoulders were heaving with effort and his hands shook at his sides, but he managed to look Sherlock in the eye before replying. "Y-yeah, I'll be fine. Just- just a bit... difficult to breathe."

By now, several police cars were surrounding the building. A few ambulances (probably from nearby, smaller hospitals, Sherlock realized) accompanied them, helping any other patients or injured civilians. Rescue teams scowered the area, handling several rescue dogs as they sniffed around.

"M- mor-" John broke off with a cough again, and Sherlock and Lestrade whipped back around to him.

"More? More what? Air? Do you need to sit down?" Sherlock rushed out, stumbling as if he had tried to step forward too quickly.

John shook his head before replying. "_Moriarty_," he corrected, making Sherlock's blood run cold. In all the previous events, he had forgotten the chilling speaker announcement.

"This was _Morairty's _doing?" Lestrade gaped at John, who nodded slowly.

"He- he-"

"John, you need to sit down or something, mate." Anderson looked on worriedly while Sally whirled around, rushing off towards one of the ambulances in search of a doctor. John, with Lestrade's help, slowly lowered himself down onto a pile of rubble as a makeshift chair.

"Sherlock?"

He turned slowly away from John, analyzing him with his eyes, to see his brother a few feet away. _Tie is tied loosely, shoes are scuffed, wearing his Audemars Piguet chain, pinkie finger tapping on the umbrella... _Mycroft was _worried_?

Sherlock ambled over, and the two Holmeses glanced over each other in a way that would only express concern in their family.

"Is he...?"

Sherlock cast a quick glance over his shoulder at his doctor, who was now being examined by another and surrounded by the three policemen. The only safer place at that point, really, would have been at Sherlock's. "He will be fine," he replied offhandedly.

"Quite. I should be making arrangements for him to continue his recovery on Baker Street, then, I presume?"

Sherlock shot his brother a flash of a grateful glance along with a nod before smirking. "How was Switzerland?"

"Oh, rather boring. You don't want to hear about it," Mycroft retorted, sticking his nose in the air ever-so-pompously.

"Oh, but the scratch on your knuckle says-"

"Well, _I _say you should go back to Doctor Watson. You'll find everything he needs in the flat by the time you return," his brother said, pointing with his umbrella behind Sherlock. They both smirked to themselves as they turned away, Sherlock brightening a bit as John headed towards him, and walked quickly to meet him more than halfway.

"John."

"Sherlock."

"Are you all right?"

John let out a tired sigh, glancing around. "I will be, hopefully."

"I-" Sherlock cut off, trying to make the words form in his mouth before shaking his head in recognition. "Shall we take a cab home?"

"I'm going to assume that was Mycroft, '_making arrangements_' for me to finish recovering at the flat," John grumbled, but nodding in assent as they slowly began walking a few streets down, around the traffic, to catch a cab. Sherlock held himself back, walking as slow as John- which was, to Sherlock's mild aggravation, a bit painfully slow.

"Your deduction skills are improving, John." Sherlock gave him a smug smile as they went down, finally catching an empty cab and heading towards Baker Street.

"I found out how he did it," Sherlock began. John's eyebrows raised impossibly high.

"Sherlock, you were on the scene for a _minute _and didn't even _see _him. How do you know how he blew up the whole hospital?"

"No, not that," Sherlock went on impatiently. "I found out how I didn't catch you were missing during the chase. Moriarty had fixed the tapes, and we went through them. There's a man who was involved- we caught him- and we're working on the others."

"Oh." Understanding- and another sort of confusion- washed over John like a wave. Yes, that was all good and fine- he guessed Sherlock would want to redeem himself for his slip-up, but _why did Sherlock care_? Sure, he had been tricked- in a way- but wasn't the case more important? Like finding out _where _Moriarty was?

Sure, the salt bomb deductions (Donovan and Anderson had totally filled him in on that) were rather genius, don't get him wrong. But it seemed all of Sherlock's efforts were focused, well, elsewhere- according to the police department.

"Of course, tomorrow I will definitely being returning to the crash site and figuring out how he '_blew up the whole hospital_,' as you said," Sherlock added, interrupting John's thoughts.

John shook his head with a smile. "Of _course _you will."

There was a semi-awkward silence after that for a few moments.

"I'mgladyou'rebackJohn," Sherlock suddenly blurted out. He tapped his fingers anxiously on the windowsill of the car, casting worried glances towards John. He had apparently heard Sherlock, and beamed in reply.

"I'm glad _you're_ back, too, Sherlock."

Sherlock could barely suppress his smile as he nodded in assent and turned back to the window. He had a gut feeling that he wouldn't be alone again for a while.

* * *

**Author's Note:**

**John's alive, he's (going to be) all right, and the _Dynamic Deducing Detective-Doctor Duo _is back! (Would you believe me if I told you I made that genius up on the spot? Because I did, and I'm proud.)**

**But yes. Moriarty blew up St. Bart's _. _No, it's not just a pile of rubble now (except for most of the first floor), but it's not exactly the safest building to be in anymore. Sherlock'll ease back into his 'normal' self quickly as John recovers, which is good, because it's _case time _and I feel like clapping my hands like a child every so often as I plan this out. It's great.**

**And oh my gosh you guys' comments are THE BEST EVER. They are literally _so _fantastic to read each and every time, and they're pretty much the reason I'm so excited about writing this (the first chapter was originally a one-shot on it's own, you know). I don't reply to them because I'd feel like replying to them all, and it's a bit like birthday presents- I'd feel like I seemed monotonous if I replied "asdfghjkl thankyousomuch iloveyou you'rethebest [some unintelligible noise]" to each one, even though it really is my reaction every time. ****You guys don't understand how happy it makes me to check my phone during the day and have any reviews or favorites or follows on this story. If I had to write a morbid simile, it'd be like Sherlock finding a triple-homicide or something.**

**Wow yeah that was creepy and not happening again but you get my point, right? It's amazing and I love you guys tons and can't thank you enough for your comments and reviews.**

**My heart goes out to any and all British readers who have been going through the strangely hot weather the past few days- and for the sake of the story (and in part on my ignorance and lack of knowledge), let's pretend/assume St. Bart's has a loud, old, train-engine-rumbling A/C like most American buildings do. The A/C is now dedicated to you guys, and as Doctor Johnny Watson would say, drink plenty of fluids, wear light clothing, and be safe guys 3**

**Well. He wouldn't add the heart, really. But- again- you get the point.**

**One last thing- if anyone wants to come up with more creative, linked, or overall better chapter titles, _ t!_ I'm _terrible _at naming chapters- for now I'm barely coping with tying the first and last sentences of each chapter together to the best of my ability (it happened this chapter, which is good). For now I'm just naming them after small or repeated elements in each chapter, so they're a bit scatter-brained and last-minute. So there's that.**

**All right, I'm going to stop the Author's Notes (aka ramblings) before they end up longer than this chapter. Thanks for reading, and as always, comments/critiques/reviews are greatly appreciated :)**


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